


An unwelcome guest

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Control Issues, Controlling Mycroft, Dark Mycroft Holmes, Friendship/Love, Jealous Mycroft, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, Past Relationship(s), Possessive Mycroft, Relationship(s), Scheming, Trust Issues, Unrequited Love, jealous lestrade, past Mycroft/Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-14 15:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18479374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Greg and Sherlock are sort of dating, or whatever you want to call two people who, except for working together, are also sharing a bed and spend more time together than apart, but one of them still refuses to be labelled a "boyfriend".Mycroft does not approve, and when he finds out that Greg is invited to stay with the Holmes family for Christmas, he decides to do everything in his power to stop this "relationship business" from going any further, so he takes it upon himself to invite someone from Sherlock's past who will hopefully be of some help.





	1. Chapter 1

MYCROFT

Sherlock was bringing Lestrade to their home from Christmas and Mycroft was seething.

Their mother was the one who told him and at first he even contemplated the fact that he had misheard her, staying silent to see if whatever she said next would give a hint of what she was truly talking about.  
Unfortunately there was no other explanation forthcoming and with an internal sigh of histrionic proportions he swallowed the information she was presenting him while silently wowing to himself that he was going to do his best to make his views on the matter of his brother bringing a man almost twice his age, in the middle of divorce proceedings and with an occupation leading his brother in a straight route to danger, into their family home, on Christmas at that.

He knew who Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was of course.  
His brother was spending a considerable amount of time with him ever since the other man, quite by accident, began to listen to his brother’s deductive ramblings during a crime scene almost nine months ago, ending with the police catching a murderer thanks to the help from Sherlock. One such incident turned in to the next and now it was more standard procedure than an exception that his brother got called in by the homicide team Lestrade was in charge of.

Mycroft was not happy with this development at all and had made his standpoint very clear, both to Sherlock and to Lestrade, but despite threats of ruination, the pair had been unable to stay apart, Sherlock defying his orders by sheer habit and for some reason he had also managed to make the Detective Inspector follow his lead. 

That there was more to the relationship than merely work was evident when seeing the way the Detective was looking at his younger brother from time to time, with that insipid tenderness that was usually only to be seen in characters on the front of sappy Valentine cards. Mycroft positively hated it without being able to pinpoint why exactly that was. There was also the fact that Lestrade kept ogling Sherlock’s very pert bottom when he bent over on crimes scenes to inspect a detail up close, it rankled Mycroft to no end. It wasn’t completely clear if Sherlock was aware of the DI’s appreciative staring or not.

Of course, there were the usual, very traditional reasons for frowning upon this arrangement.  
Lestrade was well over 40, even older than Mycroft for God’s sake!  
A greying middle-aged man well past his prime. He had peaked career wise at least five years ago, this was as far as he would reach, he was good at what he did regarding work but not extraordinary by any means, if he was, he wouldn’t need Sherlock after all. But mainly he lacked the diplomatic skills and abilities to rub shoulders with the right type of people who could help him advance his career.  
At most he would end up sitting behind a desk as he got even older, getting to sit out on the actual leg work of his trade, but the title and the paygrade would stay the same. 

Mycroft suspected that Sherlock would hate that particular outcome, but it was still a good few years left until that scenario happened. 

There wasn’t anything wrong with the sort of career Lestrade cultivated in per se, Mycroft could admire a man who stuck it out despite no way of upgrading himself and actually be content, but at the same time, it wasn’t what he had predicted for his brother to end up with.  
Not that he had given his younger brother’s love life much thought, the very notion of it frankly rattled him a bit, but still. Being the toy boy to an elderly police man had definitely not been in the cards last time Mycroft had consulted them. 

Sherlock, for starters, was a vibrant, brilliant young man who crashed head first through life and although it made Mycroft wring his hands with worry at that notion, he still couldn’t cope looking at his brother in any other way than vivacious, not to be weighed down by this anchor of a man who had no ambitions, no intelligence above average and who certainly didn’t put up a challenge for Sherlock when he bulldozed his way through existence.  
It would have been preferable if Lestrade at least managed to exude some authority over his brother, offering a calming effect, acting as a voice of reason.  
But no, that was not the case. If anything, Lestrade was being dragged by the nose, so full of admiration and gratitude that he might as well bend backwards in his efforts to please Sherlock. It was sickening to witness.

As his brother was arrogant enough as it was, this wasn’t doing him any favours.

Then there was the marriage. 

Granted, it was falling apart even before Sherlock arrived at the scene. Mrs Lestrade supposedly being of the unfaithful variety who never could make up her mind about what she wanted in life but when Sherlock had entered the scene, the situation quickly unravelled and divorce papers were being signed and delivered to authorities, siting adultery as the reason.  
Who actually accused who of the adultery was apparently still under debate.

Thirdly but most definitely not lastly came the power imbalance.  
Gregory Lestrade was both older, physically stronger and the one Sherlock was dependant on if he wanted access to the crime scenes Scotland Yard were investigating.  
Lestrade had the power to ban Sherlock if he chose to. 

Granted, he was dependant on Sherlock’s help solving them, but the consequences of an ending to their relationship would be so much harder for Sherlock to cope with, more so than for the Detective Inspector, on account of there no longer being any case work on offer if Lestrade decided that enough was enough.

Of course, his brother had the occasional private client who sought out his help, but it was mainly Lestrade who provided the work. 

That put Sherlock in a very vulnerable position Mycroft was not particularly fond of and he even wondered if the relationship wasn’t primarily built on the sexual favours his brother could provide the older man with, in exchange for the opportunity to work on the cases.  
Why else would someone like Lestrade ever put up with his brother if not for his youth, beauty and the sex? 

And even more likely, why would Sherlock put up with someone like Lestrade if not for his access to crime scenes?

Sherlock didn’t normally deal with matters of the heart or relationships. 

Mycroft was pretty sure that he _did_ engage in sex though, at least he used to, during his schoolyears and then also during the so-called troubled years, when he was an addict and had even been more or less living wildly on the streets of the city.  
Drugs didn’t come cheap and Sherlock had apparently not been too bothered about offering up his body as a way of payment when unable to pay in actual money.  
But now? And with this man? It was suspicious to say the least.

Sherlock Holmes was after all one of the most difficult, impulsive, arrogant people to walk the planet, social skills below acceptable level and with no regard whatsoever for the people around him.  
He was the only one who could push Mycroft’s buttons to such an extent that it brought him to the very edge of his patience.

And yet, Lestrade not only took it all in stride, he even seemed to like it, so much in fact that he was willing to put up with all the antics Sherlock put both himself and others through. 

The Scotland Yard Detective also had a very irritating way of monopolising his brother’s time since they had started their little "relationship" and if Mycroft was completely honest with himself he was downright jealous over this new development. In the past he had been the biggest source of influence to his brother, keeping him safe and supervised, dragging him away from trouble and pulling his almighty condescendence act whenever it suited him, so it was now smarting to be replaced, especially by someone so conventional as the DI. 

The was no dount that Lestrade had taken Mycroft’s place in Sherlock’s life and there was definitely no room for two caretakers. Mycroft strongly resented this development.

And now Lestrade was coming along to the Holmes household to spend Christmas. 

It was teeth churning and made Mycroft’s usually very cool interior boil.

Well, Mycroft Holmes had never been a person content to sit back, unable to act when a threat appeared on the horizon and even if he had watched this relationship blossom into what it now was, he wasn’t prepared to let it get any further. Greg Lestrade was not going to weasel his way into their family or into his brother’s heart either for that matter. 

So he began plotting.

The tricky part was staying on the right side of acceptable.  
Of course Mycroft had a thousand and one ways of keeping Sherlock and Lestrade apart but most of those were either illegal, morally questionable, actions his brother would never forgive or actions his employer (yes, he actually had one of those despite being Mycroft Holmes) would not approve of. A few of them even managed to fulfil all of the reasons mentioned above.

No, he had to do this in a way that couldn’t in any way backfire on him and that meant some serious plotting. Plotting he really couldn’t spare the time to do, but still did. Because the other option, just letting the relationship continue, was out of the question.

So he set truly his mind to a subject that normally was very out of his depth and came up with a plan worthy of any teenage magazine guide to ending it with your boyfriend without ending up like the bad party and then called his mother to inform her that an additional guest was coming to the Christmas dinner she had elaborately arranged as per tradition, put together with as much as strategy as anything Mycroft dealt with on a daily basis in his work.

Then he put Anthea on finding that specific guest, complete with a story about how much it would mean for Sherlock if said person came to the annual Christmas party at the Holmes residence.

The person he had chosen to use as his weapon was someone his brother would never in a million years expect him to bring to their home and frankly, had the circumstances been different, this was a man Mycroft wouldn’t normally invite, on account of past occurrences between this person and Sherlock. 

Nicholas Hardwick was someone Sherlock had indulged in sexually during his formative school years in an attempt to pass time during what he called _“the most boring experience of my life”._

Hardwick had the misfortune of mistaking sex for love and fell hard for Sherlock soon enough, therefore causing the demise of their relationship by making Sherlock dismiss his declarations of love with a sneer and a shooing motion of his hand, not at all being interested in anything but blowjobs and the other sexual activities they had indulged in up until that point. 

Hardwick had handled the rejection badly, changing schools in the end, seemingly having a hard time getting over Mycroft’s bratty little brother, and at the time, Mycroft had been very glad about this outcome, not liking Sherlock’s sexual dallying with his schoolmate. 

But now, this Hardwick person, who luckily was living not too far off from Sussex and worked as something within finance, could be used to good advantage.

Mycroft had no idea what marital status, if any, Hardwick had these days, it was after all of no importance to him and this situation. 

The point was that he and Sherlock had shared a very sexually implicit past and that detail would either be exposed by his talkative little brother himself or Mycroft would force the topic out in the open some other way. 

He held no wish for Hardwick and Sherlock to rekindle their romance, but he felt sure that DI Lestrade would be suitably jealous when hearing about their history and that would surely put a wrench in the tire to his relationship with Sherlock. 

Because if there was one thing Sherlock abhorred, it was when things got complicated in the emotional department. It was after all one of the reasons he hadn’t pursued the relationship with Hardwick any further, or with any other potential candidate that had come along afterwards. 

There had been two others, as far as Mycroft knew, who had been a little more than just meeting up for sex: Victor Trevor from University and then an unknown boy Mycroft had never managed to track down, who Sherlock had spent a Christmas vacation with at the age of 15. 

Other than that, it had been one-night stands and sex in exchange for drugs as far as his brother was concerned. And then of course…

His thoughts were interrupted by a text from Anthea, informing him that Hardwick had been tracked down, a spontaneous meeting was going to be set up and “operation obliteration“ was a go. 

As he leaned back in his chair he couldn't help but feel the thrill of a well-plotted plan kick into gear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lestrade take the train to Sussex while the Detective Inspector muses about their new relationship.

LESTRADE

Traveling by train to Sussex had initially seemed like a nice idea when he had booked the tickets, far better than driving there in his car.  
It was almost like a little holiday and he had never been to the Southeast of the country, being born in Weston-Super-Mare, on the opposite side, just the thought of being able to see where Sherlock had grown up was exciting and not even the fact that Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s decisively creepy older brother, was going to be there was putting a dampener on things.

But as he now was sitting opposite the younger man who he wouldn’t really call his boyfriend because Sherlock would most definitely balk at the notion, but who was still much more than just a colleague and on account of the sex, was beyond the label of friend, he was beginning to second-guess his first intuition of this being a pleasant experience, because Sherlock was not in the most cheerful of moods. 

Quite the contrary, he was sulking. 

“I don’t know why you felt we needed to do this thing. I hate leaving London. Nothing happens in Sussex, that place is for pensioners and very dull people who enjoy fresh air and nature. I fit into none of those categories. And if that wasn’t enough, my family will be there. Not only Mycroft, the whole lot of them. It’s going to be horrible!”

“Stop your whining, Sherlock. It’s going to be nice, the chance to breathe some fresh air for once, getting London out of our lungs.”

“My lungs will be just as contaminated as they always are on account of my smoking habits, which I will continue to do when we get to Sussex as well. So nothing new for my lungs to experience. Or for my brain either, I might add. Why do you think I never go home? The place is a veritable paradise for the lobotomised and weak of mind. Nothing of interest happens in Sussex, least of all in my family home.”

Lestrade sighed. 

He had been trying to get them both to quit smoking at least twice during the time they had known each other, failing miserably when it came to Sherlock and unfortunately not doing very well himself either, despite providing them both with nicotine patches.   
Sherlock had overused the patches on the very first day, applying four of them at once, resulting in him turning both dizzy and nauseous and when stress from work was getting to Lestrade he usually succumbed as well.   
But just before this trip he had made the effort yet again and purchased both gum and patches, hoping that the gesture would influence Sherlock as well.   
It would be nice if they were actually going to experience the country air without polluting it with smoke, but so far Sherlock had not agreed to anything. 

Quite the contrary. 

He seemed rather stressed and agitated about the notion to return to his family home, despite the fact that he usually went at least once a year.   
Lestrade guessed that the difference was him coming along on this occasion. Sherlock had acerbically informed him that festive functions in the Holmes family usually was the equivalent of trying to survive a war zone and always ended with splitting headaches and a renewed wow never to go through it again.

“Mycroft never lets me fulfil those woes of course. He actually kidnapped me once. Even went so far as to sedate me and then transporting me home in his obnoxious car. I woke up in my old bed, clad in a pyjamas on the morning of Christmas Day. I don’t even want to contemplate who changed me out of my clothes.”

He had shuddered at the memory and Lestrade hade chuckled but at the back of his head realizing that this story was probably true and also a bit creepy.   
He had met Sherlock’s brother after all and that experience had left him without any illusions about the man’s powers and manipulations. 

But still.   
The concept of four whole days on a “holiday” with Sherlock was too tempting to give up and when he had first seen Sherlock’s mother reaching out in the very old fashioned way of an actual invitation card, not yet having been thrown in the trash by Sherlock and therefore ending up in Lestrade's curious hands instead, he had taken the opportunity to invite himself along to the, what promised to be, a very festive party in the countryside. 

“What for?” Sherlock had asked, still lying naked and spent after their latest sexual activities on the sofa in the dingy flat at Montague Street that Lestrade quietly detested but still accepted on account of Sherlock actually not making that much money and therefor could not upgrade to a better option. 

He had offered to let Sherlock move in with him of course, his bachelor pad being quite alright after the separation, considering the limited amount of time he had had to find a new place when his soon to be ex-wife threw him out after finding out about his feelings for what she called “that junkie teenager whore”. 

The fact that she had shared their marital bed with several other men during their fifteen years together was nothing either of them brought up, he wanted out of their house anyway, as soon as possible. Enough was enough and their marriage had been rapidly declining for at least the past seven years.   
The fact that Sherlock had entered the stage and put up residence in his up until then soundly slumbering heart, had been just the wake up call he had needed to finally get the ball rolling and put an end to the agony that was their crumbling marriage. He resented his wife calling a person he felt so passionately about a “junkie whore” and a “teenager” as well, Sherlock was after all over 25, but he could concede that if he wanted those divorce papers signed without a fight it was better to not get involved in heated arguments about name calling. 

Sherlock had declined his offer of flatsharing unfortunately, stating that he needed his own place for privacy.   
Lestrade really wanted to argue that comment by asking what exactly he needed that privacy for, being far more jealous about Sherlock activities when he wasn’t around, than he had ever been about his wife’s.   
But just as him not wishing to rock the boat with her before the divorce was finalised, he didn’t want to stir anything with Sherlock either while their…whatever this was…was still so fresh and new between them.

He had been standing with the invitation from Sherlock's mother in his hand by the kitchen sink, the flat being a mere one-room bed-sit so the space between him and Sherlock who was splayed out on the sofa like a tantalising harlot, wasn’t that huge. 

He had put his pants back on because after sex he always felt a bit self-conscious walking around completely naked.   
Sherlock was after all so much younger, and definitely more fit and gorgeous and everything that Lestrade didn’t feel about himself despite the fact that Sherlock always told him it was a waste of time worrying about such superficial things as how his body looked like naked. 

Still, Lestrade was past 45, the hair was grey and a few too many beers had done no wonders to his body as middle age hit him. With his wife it hadn’t mattered that much, but he became very aware of every little detail when he started developing feelings for Sherlock. 

Luckily, when the time finally came and they had sex, he was too filled with lust and the heat of the moment to think about it.

It came afterwards. 

He had at least reduced his insecurities to only bother with putting on his pants instead of covering himself completely after sex or rush into the extremely small shower cubicle in Sherlock’s flat. He could almost convince himself that he felt comfortable standing by the sink in his cotton pants, the rest of the body still on full display, a glass of water in his hand and the invitation in the other.

“I thought it could be fun,” he said. “I would really like the opportunity to have a few days with you away from work.”

“Why? Work is what define us.” Sherlock had heartlessly drawled from the sofa and Lestrade could feel that very familiar sting of hurt at those words. He had always wished for them to be more, beside the work.   
But if his feelings were on display Sherlock didn’t notice them, busy as he was, reaching for his mobile phone.

Lestrade tried another tactic.

“A little holiday then? I have a few days to spend and I worked last Christmas, as well as the one before that, they can hardly deny me if I ask. Take a trip to see where you grew up? Meet your family?”

“Dull. Why would anyone want to do that?”

Lestrade had frowned, because when it came to things like these, they were very different.   
Lestrade was a family man at heart even if his own marriage had fallen apart. He liked feeling like he belonged somewhere and he came from a large family of many sisters, sisters he sometimes made the effort to visit, as well as his very elderly mother who still lived in the same house where he himself had been brought up.   
It was family after all, his origins. It should be important. 

And besides, he was dying to se where Sherlock came from.   
Who were those parents who had managed to bring up not only someone like Sherlock, but a man like Mycroft as well. He didn’t know what to expect to be honest, but it would be exciting.

Eventually, and with the help of a little bribing, offering up a few cold cases for Sherlock to entertain himself with, he finally managed to get a yes to them going and went ahead and booked them train tickets. 

But as he was now sitting in front of a very sulking and prickly Sherlock, watching a depressingly grey sky as well as muddy fields pass by outside the window, not a snow flake in sight, he was beginning to wonder what exactly he had been so eager about.

But then he thought about that fact that Sherlock had actually agreed to do this, despite his grumblings.   
And Sherlock never did anything he didn’t want to do, deep down. So he was doing this because it meant something to Lestrade. 

That thought was strangely comforting and he turned his eyes to look at the young man sitting in front of him with a pout on his lips and something in his chest eased a bit. 

It would be alright, he could handle this. 

Whatever the Holmes family would present themselves to be, the fact that he had no idea what he was getting into, it would be fine.   
Because in the end he had Sherlock by his side.   
And if things went truly bad they could always retreat to their room and give each other their undivided attention, taking advantage of the fact that this was about them in the end, on holiday together, no cases, no ex-wives, no interfering Yard-teamers who grumbled about their boss shagging the consultant. 

Just them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little insight to what Lestrade sees in Sherlock.

LESTRADE

He almost immediately knew why he fell for Sherlock Holmes. 

People might have thought it was the youth, the brain, the admittedly sexy body or something as superficial. And in a way it was, but not only.  
Despite what others thought, Sherlock had an interesting personality to go with the nice package his body presented, it just took a thick hide and some patience to see it beneath all the layers of prickly thorns and the waspish tongue.  
In reality he could be very funny and loyal to a fault when he really trusted someone, brilliant in that very unique way that was him.  
But it was more than that.

Lestrade had always appreciated the luxury texture of velvet beneath his fingertips.  
It was soft, it was nice and it was with the sense of immense poshness and wealth that came with the fabric that made him stroke it with satisfaction.  
To him Sherlock was all that.

When he grew up, his family never had any nice things.  
He had four sisters and a mother, his father left when he was three and never came back. The man might have gone to prison, he might have run off with a mistress, he might have just left, in the end it didn’t really matter, because he never came back and was never spoken of again. 

Where Lestrade grew up people were harsh, hard and unpolished and spoke with poor vocabulary that matched their rough faces.  
People from his neighbourhood didn’t have anything of beauty in their homes. The idiots who might have had something a little more special had either stolen it or in other ways procured it and no one ever managed to keep anything. It was always either stolen by someone else, sold for money or wrecked. 

He remembered their own sagging sofa in a rugged corduroy fabric in a living room where the wallpaper was tainted with stains and beginning to peal off in the corners, the worn furniture of the room he shared with his youngest sister, the greasy patina around the stove in the kitchen and the overflowing ashtrays that had been stolen from late night visits to the pub by the two older sisters, how everything came in a sort of faded colour,clothes that had been washed too many times or how everything was just simply shabby. 

Sherlock was none of these things. 

He was the posh public-school boy with the silky hair falling down in rivulets of raven-coloured curls, the porcelain skin and the fancy way of speaking. His clothes fit him like a glove and he wore them like they were made just for him. He radiated luxury and Lestrade loved it.  
It was only the Montague Street flat that stood in stark contrast to that posh persona and maybe it was the reason Lestrade secretly hated being there, it reminded him of his childhood home.

Why he thought of velvet whenever he saw Sherlock was because he could still remember the first time he felt that texture beneath his fingers.  
He had been in his late teens, one of his sisters was getting married to a bloke who a year after the marriage fell from a bridge after a pub night and drowned.  
It was later discovered that he had not so much fallen but had in fact been pushed and it had in a roundaout way been Lestrade's gateway to what later became his career.  
Police officers had come to their house where his sister had moved back after becoming a widow and he had sat with her on the ratty sofa while they had asked her all sorts of questions about her late husband who had apparently been living a double life in the dark, lined with gambling and drugs.  
His sister hadn't known. 

The police officers with their nice crisp suits and their shiny badges as well as the air of confidence had impressed him despite the fact that you weren’t supposed to feel like that where he came from. The law enforcement usually meant trouble so they were naturally seen as the enemies, it had been ingrained in him since childhood. But as he sat there, more looking at them than actually hearing their words, he had secretly wished to bee one of them, it had seemed like a better option.

A day after that visit his sister had been approached by a man in a silver-coloured car. He wanted her to meet his boss who somehow had been involved with her husband before his death. Apparently there was an issue with a debt. 

She had brought Lestrade along for protection and they had been driven from their neighbourhood to a much fancier place, stopping at a white house with a nice blossoming garden and a childrens playhouse up in a tree on a street where all you could hear was the chirping of birds and the distant sound of a lawn mower.

Inside he had been shown into a tastefully decorated living room to wait while his sister had a chat with the bloke who owned the house.  
Lestrade had been seated on a cream-coloured leather sofa. Draped over it there had been a soft plaid of deep burgundy velvet. 

He had accidentally placed his hand on it while sitting down and had not been able to stop marvelling at the feel of it beneath his fingers. He had never felt anything like it before and he never did again until his fingers carded through Sherlock’s raven curls more than twenty years later, despite his best efforts to find that same feeling over the years. 

He loved the beautiful things in life, the softness and the luxury , everything that was the opposite of where he came from, he always had and he never understood why he shouldn't.  
However much he loved his mother and his sisters he had strived for something better, something else than what they had and with his wife and her long legs clad in smooth nylon stockings and nails painted in mother-of-pearl on the first night he saw her, bringing a glass of white wine to her mouth glimmering invitingly with rose-coloured lip-gloss, he actually thought he had found the closest thing.  
She was shiny, soft and different from any girl he had met before and for a long time that was enough.

She was from London, had a nice way about her, talked with clipped wovels and had intelligent thoughts, her hair was long and glossy, with a waft of something flowery, never dry och stale from too much product.  
Her skirts were short but still classy, unlike his sister’s which were just short.  
She smelled of Chloé Fleur de Parfume and had pearls in her ears as well as around her neck. 

Much later did he learn that pearls represented tears. She always seemed so happy though.  
Not on account of him, he soon figured that out, but he did his best and turned a blind eye if it meant that she would stay and he could keep the dream alive. 

Until he met Sherlock who had the most luscious mouth he had ever seen, a temper as dark as his hair and a skin as smooth and unblemished as marble. He was like a piece of art and Lestrade knew that he wouldn’t be able to resist. Next to Sherlock Holmes his wife was like a dutifully planted pot of nice everyday flowers next to an exotic hothouse specimen with the threat of deadly venom beneath its alluring beauty.

The problem was that he didn’t fancy himself having a chance. 

When Sherlock actually showed some interest after a while, Mycroft immediately made an appearance, objecting on the matter, along with Lestrade's wife who had begun suspecting that he was finally paying back for all the years of infidelity she had subjected him to. 

Mycroft never said anything directly in the beginning, merely hinted, in that way that he did where every word he uttered had a totally different meaning underneath.  
It was quite frustrating.

Sherlock told him to ignore it, _he_ certainly intended to, but that just made it all worse. Because what if Sherlock was doing this just to spite his older brother?

The first time Lestrade had the "privilege" to meet Mycroft Holmes was at his own office. The man was already standing there in all his meticulous glory, umbrella in hand, frown upon the face, when he stepped inside the room, still a bit bleary-eyed, longing for a strong cup of coffee. Donovan was clearly incensed about the intrusion but hadn't managed to keep him out while her boss wasn't there.  
At first Lestrade hadn't the foggiest idea who the intruder was and was just about to open his mouth to demand an explanation when the other man took control of the situation and by his first phrase made sure that Lestrade knew exactly who was standig in front of him.

“I don’t approve of the way my brother has begun to spend his time chasing after criminals and putting himself in all sorts of dangerous situations.”

What he really was saying was: “I don’t approve of my brother having sex with a much older man who is still married and has a complicated relationship with trust and jealousy.”

At least that was what it sounded like.

He had no way of knowing that of course even if Sherlock claimed his brother knew everything. 

“I can assure you that Sherlock is in very capable hands and he is doing my team a world of good helping us with some of the more complicated cases. I would never dream of putting him in any harm’s way,” Lestrade had said and he had almost believed his own words, because in an ideal world that would actually be the case.  
In reality though, Sherlock more often than not, ran off on his own, took far greater risks than Lestrade was comfortable with and also had his fair share of scrapes and injuries because of it.

It was clear that Mycroft Holmes wasn’t convinced either. 

His presence was very overwhelming in a way that was difficult to define. Not like his brother who achieved attention just by sweeping into a room, whether or not he said anything, people had their eyes on him. The same could not exactly be said of Mycroft Holmes.  
Lestrade was pretty sure the man could blend into the walls if he wanted to, in a way he had a very non-descript appearance. At the same time, he didn’t.  
Because when being trapped in a room with only him present you felt him very distinctly in every fibre of your being.

The first word that came to Lestrade’s mind was the word solid.  
It was a very good description of the older Holmes brother. In a way large and ominous without being massive or straight out fat, whatever Sherlock claimed.  
He looked older than his actual years and he was slightly overweight, had a bit of a belly and a very stern face, and it all suited the persona he was successfully trying to cultivate.  
He didn’t smile for example, he merely smirked.  
He had a weak chin and a prominent nose, thinning hair and was dressed in bespoke clothes. He looked very well put-together and at the same time a bit stuffy. It was the look in the eyes and his tone of voice that told Lestrade that he should watch this one.

He was also of a finer grain than the people from Lestrade's old neighbourhood, but it was the wrong kind of fine. Where Sherlock exuded drama, mystery and black velvet, Mycroft was old-school with Tweed, Brogues, the smell of leather and beady eyes. It wasn’t as eye-catching as the Byronic look of his brother but it was still impressionable in a way.

Because of his deeply rooted love of anything posh and beautiful he never understood why he should hate it just because he never had it growing up, that people with his background resented those with pedigree and expensive clothes and a classy accent. He had always wanted all of it, had seen Brideshead revisited on the telly and dreamed of another world, where people drank Champagne when they wanted and lounged about in Boater straw hats and white linen suits.  
So his instinct had always been to grasp it even firmer if ever getting the opportunity to put his hands on that dream, letting what ever beautiful thing that got in his way, be his, treasure it forever if possible. Sherlock was that unique specimen he had stumbled upon, quite by accident, but he wasn't giving him up without a fight. As long as Sherlock wanted him, he was all his. 

“Be that as it may, I fail to see how this can be proper procedure, Scotland Yard letting a civilian running around their crime scenes, _investigating_.”

The word investigating was so clearly pronounced with utter dismay and contempt than it rankled Lestrade who normally didn’t let pompous know-it-alls push his buttons. He was used to all sorts of people and in a way Mycroft Holmes wasn’t that different from the bosses he worked for, or the occasional snotty prosecutor or any other type of person with an almighty power complex and the attitude to back it up. And yet, as someone related to Sherlock and considering the feelings he had for the young man, it did irritate him to be spoken to like this, like what they did was a joke to him. Something of insignificance.

“As I ‘m sure you know, Sherlock is hardly running around, sticking his nose in investigations where he has no place to do so. He’s a true asset, doing a very fine work helping us. What he does is quite remarkable acctually. ”

Mycroft managed to look even more bland yet still insinuating all sort of things with his tone of voice. It was beginning to really infuriate Lestrade.

“However, I am sure Scotland Yard managed fine before his interference and will continue to do so in the future as well.” 

With those words he had sailed out of Lestrade’s office as magnificiently as he had entered it, leaving the DI fuming and a bit flummoxed about how to process this visit. When he had told Sherlock about it afterwards the young man had simply snorted and waved it off as it being Mycroft’s way of introducing himself.

“Introducing himself?” 

“He wants you to know that he has his eyes on you. Your flat is probably under surveillance already and at least one from your staff is being bribed for more information. Possibly your wife as well. “

“What?!”

“It’s what he does. No need to concern yourself, the best way to give him the middle finger is to just ignore him and continue to do what we do. Besides, he doesn’t know _exactly_ what we do with each other, he merely suspects. If he really knew everything he would have sent Anthea. That he came himself proves that he needed to meet you in person to assess who you are and what it is that we do outside of work. ” 

“No chance of you telling him?”

“Certainly not. It’s none of his business what I do and who I do it with.”

Mycroft's tone had become decidedly more stern over time and only a few weeks before the Christmas invitation the hint of a threat had been made by him after showing up at Lestrade’s flat one morning when Sherlock had happened to have spent the night.  
The brothers had ended up in a snippy argument about Sherlock’s life choices. 

His brother made it clear that having sex with a man almost old enough to be his father and wasting his talents on unpaid detective work was not desirable, but without actually voicing any of it with words, merely insinuating it. They both stepped around the subject like two kittens around a steaming pot of porridge, the intentions were clear but none of them were willing to make the first move and actually take the bite.

So when he and Sherlock finally arrived at the train station at Sussex a few weeks later, waiting for a car to pick them up and take them the rest of the way to the house, Lestrade had an uneasy feeling in his gut about what this holiday was actually going to be like, despite the fact that he was the one who had insisted on them going. 

What if Mycroft had influenced his parents against him? Would the whole stay consist of jabs and digs at him and his relationship with Sherlock? 

Officially they were nothing else but two colleagues working together and then spending some additional time in each other’s company.  
Not even his team had worded anything about there being more between them than the work, despite some of them suspecting it. Especially Donovan who gave him a disapproving glare whenever she caught them standing too close to each other. 

But technically there was nothing there that said relationship or whatever it was that they had.  
He himself wasn’t even sure.  
Sometimes it felt like they merely had sex and then Sherlock scampered off to his own place afterwards, like he had needed to let off some steam but didn’t want whatever else Lestrade was offering. 

But sometimes there was more, hours just hanging in Lestrade’s flat, eating Indian take way straight out of the carton, talking, sometimes just sitting silent, immersed in their own thing but still being together, sharing the presence of companionship.

Then sometimes they argued. 

It usually started with some small insignificant detail and then it blew all out of proportion and Sherlock stormed off in a huff, even when they were in Montague Street and technically it shouldn’t be him leaving. 

Lestrade could raise his voice, stand his ground and be stubborn too, he wasn't a door mat and he knew when he was right.  
But he never left, it was always Sherlock’s prerogative to do so, his role to play. 

Occasionally the arguments lasted for days, a heavy silence settling between them and Lestrade hated those because he was never sure if one day that silence was going to last forever. With Sherlock everything was uncertain, that was the thrill of it, as well as the torture.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes to his parents' house prepared for battle.

MYCROFT

Anthea had arranged for a little run in between Hardwick and a “business man” connected to the Holmes family who had managed to strike up a conversation in the sauna at the Squash Club in Brighton where Hardwick was a regular visitor. The business man who in reality was a minion working for Mycroft, had managed not only to peak Hardwick’s interest in the opportunity to meet his old school friend again, but also persuaded him to accept the invitation to attend the Christmas party at the Holmes’s.

The fact that Hardwick had an on again/off again lover and also parents of his own who probably wanted to see their son for Christmas was apparently not an issue and Mycroft couldn’t help but wonder how good of an impression Sherlock had actually managed to give all those years ago if it made this man jump so eagerly at the opportunity to meet Sherlock again.

When the whole thing was set up he contacted his mother asking her to arrange for the new guest with a suitable seating arrangement, close to Sherlock considering that they were old friends from school after all.

His mother had long ago stopped asking her oldest son why he did things that seemingly was of no consequence to him, it was after all not the first dinner party where he had invited unexpected guests, asking for her cooperation regarding things such as seating arrangements and so forth. But normally they were never people acquainted with Sherlock but rather persons from Mycroft’s circle, like politicians or other people of influence. 

“He’s bringing that Detective Inspector with him, what am I to do with him?” she asked, contemplating her seating arrangements, not fully pleased about being forced to start moving people about.

“Oh, put him next to me if you worry. We have met before, so that’s at least one familiar face close by,” Mycroft offered, glad about the medium of a telephone, making it impossible for his mother to see his smirking face.

“But the poor man might feel a bit lost without Sherlock, don’t you think? Especially since the sleeping arrangements bungled up the two of them sharing a room.”

Mycroft had made sure to have a finger in the sleeping arrangements as well, suggesting that he could share rooms with his brother so more people could sleep in his own room as it was the bigger one, thus forcing Lestrade to share with two other guests instead of sleeping in a bed with Sherlock.  
As their mother had no idea of the relationship between her youngest son and the Detective Inspector she had agreed to this. 

“Don’t worry, mummy. He’s a grown man, I might even be inclined to say mature. He can surely survive without holding Sherlock’s hand at all hours of the day. He’s a middle-aged Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, not a helpless toddler in need of looking after.”

“What exactly is the relationship between them? Sherlock didn’t offer any explanations, only told me that he was bringing someone, a man he knows from work. Not quite sure that I know what kind of work that is precisely. You know how he is.”

_Yes I do_ , Mycroft thought, the smirk suddenly wiped off his features, replaced by something more sinister.

Instead of answering her he said good bey and ended the call.  
If she was observant enough she would find her answer by Christmas anyway, but he was frankly counting on her being clueless as always.  
If she thought Sherlock had brought a potential boyfriend she would immediately switch seats with Hardwick so Lestrade could be next to her precious youngest son again. 

The fact that neither of her two boys had found love was something that plagued her in that pedestrian motherly fashion that he detested but had learned to accept and deal with. Occasionally he had tried obliging her by going on dates but had given it up after 25. It never amounted to anything useful anyway.  
She had most probably given up on him by now, putting all of her hope on Sherlock instead.  
If Mycroft had any say in it, his younger brother would be single and unattached again after this Christmas holiday.

When he arrived at their family home in the afternoon of the day before Christmas eve, the whole house was in a buzz, his mother busy putting the final touches to the following evening’s preparations and her husband doing his best keeping out of sight. 

Mycroft had never held the man in any high regard, finding him both pedestrian as well as unintelligent in that way that made him into an inconvenience talking to. Neither Sherlock or Mycroft were what he had wished for, if he even had wanted children in the first place. 

He thrived the most in the company of men with the same disposition as himself, he had mainly married his wife because a woman in the house could be handy once in a while, but essentially the marriage was more an arrangement than a relationship based on love. 

So unsurprisingly, his father was not to be seen when he arrived, most likely walking the grounds, cavorting with the groundskeeper or someone from the serving staff or worse. It was of no importance to Mycroft anyway.

In the living room the fire was lit and Sherlock reclined in one of the huge winged armchairs in front of it, legs over the armrest, long, nimble fingers playing with his mobile, as per usual. No sign of Lestrade though.

“Little brother,” Mycroft drawled, unable to feel the small tingle of fondness inside his chest, although outwardly showing no signs of that. It wouldn’t do him any favours exposing weaknesses in public, least of all to his brother, the advantages to be taken from that could be disastrous.  
As expected, Sherlock ignored him, not even bothering to lift his eyes from the screen. 

“So, where’s the Detective Inspector hiding?” Mycroft continued, seating himself in the chair opposite.

There was a box of Quality Street Christmas edition on a small table next to his chair and despite the risk of a jibe about his diet he still reached out and took one, carefully unwrapping it, exposing a caramel swirl which he popped into his mouth with aplomb while never releasing his brother with his eyes. 

“How should I know? I’m not his minder.”

“No. What exactly is it that you are to him?”

Sherlock raised his eyes from the phone with a scowl but didn’t get the chance to reply before their mother trudged inside, Lestrade in tow.

“Boys! I found the Detective Inspector walking into the kitchen a little lost, I would have thought that I had raised you better. As your guest, Sherlock, you make sure that he has what he needs and help him, instead of sitting in here, lounging in a chair. And you as well, Mycroft. Where are your manners?”

Turning to Lestrade she gestured for him to be seated on the sofa and then scowling at her two sons.

“Make sure that he is well looked after from now on, I’ll arrange for some tea, but then I’m needed elsewhere. The other guests arrive tomorrow and I’m far from ready. The least I could ask for is your cooperation in this!”

With that she turned around and left the room.

Lestrade looked a bit embarrassed and smiled a lopsided smile while running a hand nervously through his short hair.

“Mothers eh?” he said to no one in particular before sitting down on the sofa.

“What of them?” Mycroft said, this time reaching for another Quality Street sweet automatically, without even thinking of it.

Lestrade looked like he didn’t really follow the question but still made the effort to shrug half-haphazardly, if there was a chance that Mycroft was perhaps trying to be funny in that stuffy old way only certain people understood.

“They treat you like kids the second you put your foot in their home, no matter how old you are,” he said, making himself comfortable on the sofa, chansing a glance around the room instead of looking at the others. He seemed out of his element.

Mycroft felt the urge to make a quip about advanced age, it was just dangling there right in front of them, so tempting, but then he decided against it. Better play it cool for now, if he was lucky he could get out of this holiday disaster without getting his hands visibly dirty at all.  
Unfortunately Sherlock wasn’t that willing to let him off the hook that easily.

“Why am I sharing rooms with _you?_ ”

Mycroft couldn’t help a smug smile as Lestrade stiffened slightly.

“because, brother dear, my room is larger than yours and can accommodate more people. And as we all know you abhor the company of people you don’t know it was the most sensible solution. It will be just like old times.”

Sherlock gave him an ambiguous stare while Lestrade leaned forward, intruding.

“Whose idea was that arrangement?” he asked.

Mycroft ignored him, still locking eyes with his brother. Sherlock stared right back but then suddenly swivelled his eyes away, looking at Lestrade instead.

“Come, let’s go for a walk. I’m in the sudden need of some fresh air.”

He rose from his armchair in one fluid motion and stalked towards the door. For a second it seemed as he was about to just disappear through the it without bothering to see if Lestrade was following but to Mycroft’s surprise, and probably Lestrade’s as well, he stopped just before reaching the end of the room, turning his head to look over his shoulder.

“You coming?” he said and Lestrade hurriedly scrambled up from his seat on the sofa. 

Mycroft felt something unpleasant unfurl in his stomach at the sight of the two of them departing, all but holding hands.  
Less than a minute later he heard the front door open and close behind them. 

He moved over to the window where he had clear view of the garden path leading to the gates.  
In the shadowy dusk of the evening he could see two dark figures walking away, huddled up in their coats, scarves wrapped around their necks to shield from the icy weather. 

Nothing about the picture in front of him said anything about any intimacy between them, but Mycroft knew better. 

Because a grainy black and white version, taken from a video feed of one of the innumerable CCTV cameras he had at his disposal, showed one dark-haired young man locking lips with a grey-haired older man in a brown winter coat, both men wearing gloves against the wintery cold, embracing each other passionately in a back street, garbage bins and brick walls constituting the background to their little tableau of intimacy and it was telling him a different story. 

With a sigh he turned around and went back to his armchair just as his mother reappeared with a tray of tea and some biscuits.  
Surprised she looked around the room, expecting to see more than just Mycroft sitting alone by the fire. 

Before she had the opportunity to voice her questions he pulled out his phone and pretended to be immersed in something on its screen, discouraging her from trying to talk.

He had some thinking to do and preparations to make, might as well use the intermission to his advantage. In a few hours it would be time for bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lestrade release some steam.

LESTRADE

“So, what was that all about? What are we doing out here? It’s bloody freezing, Sherlock!”

Lestrade dug his hands even deeper into his pockets and tried hiding the lower part of his face inside his grey scarf, protecting it from the biting cold as he did his best to keep up with Sherlock who was hastily striding away from the house.

“I can’t stand him when he’s like that! All smug and full of himself. I hate him!”

Lestrade couldn’t help but chuckle, not really following the reason for this hasty departure but feeling the fondness rooting itself at the pit of his stomach as he heard Sherlock’s petulant voice. It was in full sulk but God, he loved that voice! Loved that _man_. 

The second that thought had crossed his mind he pushed it away.  
No, it was way too early. 

What they had was so vague and undecisive it hardly constituted as anything beyond a few sexual experiences, some heated arguments, a dysfunctional working relationship and some shared dinners. What exactly would anyone call that?   
They weren’t teenagers where something like that might have actually constituted as a relationship. 

Love was way too strong a sentiment to be harbouring at this stage.   
With one step still in the remnants of his shattered marriage and the other trying to find some sort of balance with a man who could best be described as a bad life decision.   
He would probably end up regretting Sherlock a few years from now. 

Maybe it was a mid-life crisis?   
The final thirst for something thrilling before settling for comfort and security?

Whatever it was, he could not go around thinking in terms of love, that would only make everything even worse when it finally came crashing down around him.   
And it would eventually, he had no illusions about any other outcome.

The source of his conflicting thoughts had put a faster pace in his steps, increasing the distance between them.   
Lestrade had to hurry to keep up. 

Pushing down his previous thoughts he picked up the subject of Mycroft again, where Sherlock had thrown it, in front of his feet.   
There was certainly something strange about that man.   
Granted, he could see where someone would not be too happy about seeing his younger brother hooking up with a man like Lestrade, there was no future in that.   
But still, it smarted a bit and what the hell? Sherlock was a grown up, he was allowed to make his own mistakes.   
At least it wasn’t drugs or anything lethal or illegal.

And despite his understanding of Mycroft’s misgivings about this situation, his antagonism was too strong.   
It couldn’t even be written off as being overprotective, there was something else lurking underneath it all, but Lestrade couldn’t put a finger on what it was.

“Hey, he’s your brother, it’s his job to put you down,” he tried, unsure of who he was trying to convince.

Sherlock snorted, clearly not falling for it.

“I’m not a child, and you have no clue what he is, so stop trying to explain his actions to me.”

“I’m not. Heck, I haven’t the foggiest what he’s talking about half of the time, quite frankly he’s annoying the hell out of me whenever I see him. I’m just saying, big brothers are wired like that, it’s what they do – annoy.”

“How would you know, you only have sisters. Besides, that isn’t what he’s doing, trying to annoy me. He’s cast a glove.”

“Excuse me? A glove? Like in a duel you mean?”

Lestrade couldn’t help but laugh. It sounded absurd and at the same time so very much like something Mycroft and Sherlock would do to each other. Get involved in an non-existent duel consistent of words no one else could decipher. 

“Yeah. In his very sadistically manipulative way. You just wait. Remember, I told you we shouldn’t have come.”

“I don’t get it. He hasn’t really said anything? We couldn’t have spent more than three minutes with him in there.”

“You weren’t paying attention.”

Lestrade felt even more confused now, and for once that confusion wasn’t all because of Sherlock.  
But before he had the chance to say anything else they were apparently in front of whatever it was Sherlock had wanted them to reach by marching through the brisk chill of the evening in such haste.

It was a shed.

Sherlock rummaged through his pocket and produced what Lestrade tried to persuade himself wasn’t a pic lock, one of those professional ones he had seen plenty of times in the evidence room at Scotland Yard.   
A room where he had taken Sherlock more than a few times, at least once ending in a snogging session behind a shelf while the clerk had been otherwise occupied. Sherlock had such nimble fingers, had they perhaps procured something that had caught his interest while keeping Lestrade distracted?   
The thought was equally thrilling as well as infuriating. Whatever Sherlock might think, Lestrade didn’t particularly like being played.

Without any effort Sherlock managed to unlock the door and stepped inside, turning half-way signalling for Lestrade to follow.

It wasn’t much more than a large tool shed, a few garden appliances hanging on the wall and a riding lawn mower parked at the back and a work bench against the wall.

Sherlock flicked the light on and then turned to face Lestrade.   
In the dim light his features looked surprisingly soft for a man who was built out of angles. His eyes were also very dark and had that look in them that Lestrade knew meant trouble.   
At least it wasn’t the dangerous type of trouble, the look he got when he wanted to chase head first after a double murderer lurking in a dark alley, armed with a cleaver. 

The question why Sherlock had been so rattled by his brother had to be put on the back burner for a moment as Lestrade opened up his arms and embraced the younger man in a firm hug.   
Then his hands travelled down, to that pert bottom, splaying his fingers possessively over it, before grabbing a firm hold while Sherlock leaned in against his neck and let his tongue slowly glide over Lestrade’s scruffy skin, stopping by the jaw line where his lips kissed him, at first with slight force, then slowing down, taking his time, exploring the bone beneath with soft licks and sharp teeth.

Lestrade let out a moan, Sherlock knew exactly where his soft spots where, the area along his throat, connecting it to the jaw, always made him go weak in the knees as Sherlock did his best to stimulate it with his lips and fervent tongue movements, sending a shiver of pleasure down his older lover’s spine.

The clothes were quickly disposed of, his own first, Sherlock’s nimble fingers making a short process of both his shirt and the trousers, pooling down to his ankles as the belt was unbuckled and the buttons undone.   
A warm hand snaked its way inside his underwear, grabbing a firm hold of his half-hard cock while his own hands tried their best to get Sherlock out of his impossible Belstaff coat, the jacket underneath as well as the tight shirt covering his torso.

“Why do you have so many layers?” he mumbled but Sherlock wasn’t listening, still busy with stroking the cock inside the pants, while letting his tongue glide down again, from Lestrade's throat to the collarbone this time.

Unable to open the innumerable buttons on the silky shirt, Lestrade shifted focus to Sherlock’s narrow waist and the belt that was keeping his slim fit trousers over his hips.

While he was struggling with that Sherlock pushed them both against the work bench, then turning them around, switching places, so he was the one ending up with his back against it instead of Lestrade. Lithely he jumped up on it as soon as the belt of his trousers were undone, letting the trousers fall down his legs along with the pants he swiftly pulled down as well. 

The sight of Sherlock’s hard cock made Lestrade’s mouth water with anticipation and he went down on his knees as if on command and let his lips enclose the head of the cock, working his way along the shaft until he was almost gagging from it.   
He could feel Sherlock’s fingers work their way along his scalp, tugging at the short hair, breathing with a shallow tempo as Lestrade withdrew his mouth, exposing the delicate skin to the coldness outside his warm and appreciative mouth before swallowing it again, repeating the movement with quicker actions as Sherlock’s breathing quickened as well, almost panting with want while clawing at Lestrades head and then down to his shoulders, both wanting to dictate the pace at the same time as he wanted to surrender to the older man’s knowledge of what made his body react with outmost pleasure.

Just as Lestrade was sure Sherlock wouldn’t be able to hold back anymore he was yanked up with surprising force so they ended up facing each other instead. Sherlock’s mouth crashed into his, the tongue forcing its way inside while he could feel Sherlock’s hands against his own cock now.   
Those delicate musician’s hands were doing what his own lips had been doing mere seconds ago while their kissing became even more fervent. 

The hand that was working its way up and down his shaft let the other hand grab his balls, squeezing them with just the right amount of pressure, making him close his eyes to just wallow in the sensational feeling of Sherlock working him to completion with his very able hands.   
At the same time, the sensation of their tongues moving against each other made his head swim, he was beginning to feel short of breath. 

This, the intimacy that was between them, when everything was good and Sherlock wasn’t his prickly arrogant self and Lestrade wasn’t worried about making the hugest mistake of his life letting himself fall for this unpredictable force of nature, when all those things aligned, it was pure heaven, everything he could have ever asked for.

Trying his best not to come just yet, his hands searched for Sherlock’s abandoned cock, resuming with his hands what he had started with his mouth.   
It was glorious, not even the cold air inside the shed had any impact on what he felt, he was completely in the moment know, older brothers, his surroundings, any misgivings he might have had earlier about not being able to sleep in the same bed, not even the same room as Sherlock, it was all gone and left was the wonderful feeling of pure lust pulsating through his body as he came hard, white come covering Sherlock’s fingers as a deep throaty moan escaped him, before he clenched his teeth, closing his eyes, riding the wave of orgasm while wishing to hold on to the very last sensation of it.

He came through, rising from his lustful haze just as Sherlock succumbed, bending his head backwards, exposing that glorious throat, eyes falling shut as he came, lips slightly parted, black curls in a frivolous mess. 

He truly looked like piece of art and Lestrade couldn’t help but marvel at the thought that this was all his, this moment, this experience, this beautiful body in front of him, everything.   
For a few short seconds everything was just perfect and he knew that this was why he sometimes put up with the rest, the difficult bits, the slight ache in his chest when Sherlock didn’t want to define what they were or when his wife called him a fool for falling head over heals for a posh boy tramp who would walk all over him when he had gotten what he wanted.   
There had to be a catch, no one ever got someone like Sherlock for keeps and Lestrade always wondered how much time they had left. It took the pleasure out of the the whole thing and he regretted thinking that way, but he couldn't help himself. 

But now, just like, this, it was only pure bliss and he succumbed to the feeling, allowing himself to enjoy it.   
The worrying part would come later, it always did.

As they walked back to the house it felt like hours had passed by. 

Sherlock was quiet but it was difficult to discern if it was out of something troubling him or if he was just spent and perhaps tired.   
Lestrade kissed his cheek lightly and let his hand fall over his shoulders as they approached the entrance of the house.  
Inside there were people still moving about, arranging things for tomorrow. Sherlock’s mother could be seen talking to a man who looked slightly like Mycroft, but shorter and more portly. The father presumably. 

Lestrade wondered if he should let go of Sherlock, resume the working relationship they were presenting to the world outside of their own little bubble.

Just as he was about the release his hold of the shoulders he felt Sherlock’s lips against his neck again, worrying at the very sensitive spot once more. But this time it was quick and just a peck.

“There’s probably a sandwich to be had in the kitchen if you want. If there's anything else, I’ll be down the hall, three doors from your room. Better try getting as much sleep as you can, tomorrow will most likely be a nightmare.”

With that Sherlock released himself from their entanglement and opened the front door to go inside, leaving Lestrade standing left in the dark, uncertain and with that funny feeling that he was missing something obvious. 

Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft plants the first seed of suspicion in Lestrade's mind.

MYCROFT

By mid-afternoon people were starting to show up in small groups, anticipation in their eyes, dressed to the nines despite the early hour.  
Most of them were relatives and friends of his parents, people he wouldn’t have bothered with if it wasn’t for his mother’s insistence.  
Dressed more appropriately in a country attire instead of his usual suit he descended the stairs to be part of the welcoming committee as neither Sherlock or their father were willing to do so.

He still felt a bit tense after a night with not much sleep. 

It was partly because of a mixed feeling of anticipation but also irritation.   
Anticipation at seeing his own plan come to form with the arrival of Hardwick, however childish that feeling was and to himself he could actually admit that it was a new low even for him to stoop to these kinds of manipulations.   
But the irritation he also felt took the edge right off whatever misgivings he might have about his actions.   
His brother had reeked of sex when he had finally decided to join Mycroft in their shared room for the night and by the satisfied look on Lestrade’s face this morning he had enjoyed himself immensely despite the separate sleeping arrangements. 

Sherlock had also had the audacity to flaunt his actions openly while getting undressed, knowing full well that Mycroft would be able to tell, even without such obvious signs as sticky underwear and the rash from a stubble, Lestrade’s stubble, on his delicate skin.

Finally Mycroft had sighed from where he had resided, already under the duvet, back against the headboard and book in hand, primly dressed in a pyjamas.

“Really, Sherlock? Flaunting it like a teenage boy after his first sexual fumblings?”

Sherlock, instantly angered, had turned around to face him, half-undressed, his rumpled shirt still in his hands.

“What business of yours is it what I do? This is my home too, you know, and he is my guest.”

“A guest you need to keep entertained with more than just sparkling conversation and delicious food?”

“Food is more your department, so you tell me, is it scrumptious enough to keep a person entertained? If so, we’ll know where to find you if needed. “

Sherlock was clearly unbalanced, more so than actually expected, he was prickly in a way that made him lash out more than usual and he seemed almost nervous.   
It happened rarely and yet Mycroft had no problem identifying it when seeing the signs.   
Jabs about food issues were common enough, expected even, but there was something in his younger brother’s eyes that spoke of something else.   
Perhaps he had been able to draw the dots together, sensing that Mycroft was up to something?

“You seem very on edge, brother mine? Your colleague not proving to be the buffer you wanted for this visit?”

“I hadn’t even intended to come in the first place. Why he wanted to join is beyond me.”

“It’s tradition, you had no choice but to show up. And assumingly he is as interested in the family pile we come from as most people would be. Or maybe he just couldn’t bare the thought of time spent without you? Worried perhaps?”

“Shut it, Mycroft! Why would he be worried? It’s only your sordid mind that comes up with things that aren’t there.”

“Really? Because your appearance says otherwise. You might be able to fool his co-workers at Scotland Yard and mother clearly has no clue, but I know you Sherlock. And if nothing else, I have a very good sense of smell.”

“Well, you’re welcome to get out of _my_ bed and _my_ room at anytime, if it bothers you.”

“It’s not the smell in per se, it’s what it indicates. You know I don’t like the thought of you…with others... And that man certainly isn’t someone I would wish for my little brother. I am quite frankly struggling to see what the allure is.”

Sherlock had stared at him but Mycroft had felt nothing but calmness staring back. Memories of past transgression flowing between them, sucking out all the air in the room. 

It hadn’t ended well, Mycroft was aware and they had never talked about it since, but still, this development with Lestrade had brought it all up to the surface again, as well as the fact that Mycroft and Sherlock were going to share a bed, however platonically, something that hadn't been done in years and this time as brothers only, it created a funny atmosphere, spooking Sherlock in particular. 

It suddenly hit Mycroft that his brother might actually be afraid of him.   
At least under these circumstances.   
Normally, he wouldn't be.   
But now? Maybe.  
It was all down to old memories and the scars they still had from the past.

He found himself strangely comforted by that thought despite not really wishing to do Sherlock any harm.  
A repetition of the situation that had put an end to their relationship several years ago was not something he was intending to rekindle, but Sherlock didn’t know what his intentions were.   
That fact and the suspicion that Mycroft had something planned for Lestrade put Sherlock on edge and it was fascinating to see.   
Sherlock hadn’t been this on unbalanced since being on drugs. That mood in combination with Hardwick's arrival might prove to be too much, the question was who would snap first, Sherlock or Lestrade?

After a shower Sherlock had actually climbed up in bed, next to Mycroft, wearing a pyjamas as well, despite usually sleeping naked as Mycroft very well knew from various camera feeds. 

How well he actually managed to sleep was anyone’s guess, his back was turned against Mycroft for the duration of the night and when he woke the next morning, finally falling asleep after several hours of brooding on his own side of the bed, Sherlock was already gone.

Except for a swift breakfast sighting of Lestrade who, unlike the brothers were in a sunny mood, Mycroft had stayed in the library or in the room he shared with Sherlock, trying to do some work, keeping his tiredness at bay.   
Sudden bursts of giddiness at the thought of the possible outcome of Hardwick’s arrival had kept him on edge, adrenalin rushing through his system when sleepiness was fighting for domination. It was almost worthy of any strategic game he engaged in workwise, but perhaps even more exhilarating as it was of a more personal nature.

As he now stood in the hall, next to his mother and greeted the arriving guests he was mentally prepared. 

Hardwick arrived at four.

Mycroft couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.   
Considering the image he had been harbouring all these years about the boy who had been keeping Sherlock busy at school, the sexual activities they had participated in to stave off Sherlock’s boredom, the man in front of him was somehow not living up to the expectations.

Granted, years had passed since then, none of them looked the same anymore, Mycroft himself could hardly boast of any significant improvements on his appearance. But still, this was the man he had counted on to put a wedge between Sherlock and Lestrade. It wouldn’t have hurt if Hardwick had perhaps been a bit more handsome.

The man in front of him looked very ordinary.   
Brown hair, plain features, wearing a Christmas sweater for heaven’s sake!   
At least he looked very keen to be there. He would probably start salivating at the mouth at the sight of Sherlock.   
His little brother had actually matured into his body and looked even more striking now than as a teenager, Sherlock knew what suited him and how to make an impression, things he had not been aware of while growing up. 

He in turn would most certainly not be impressed by Hardwick, but it was Lestrade’s reaction and following behaviour that mattered.

“Oh, you’re Sherlock’s old acquaintance from school?” their mother said as she greeted the visitor, wise enough not to use the term friend.   
Sherlock didn’t do friendships, never had, most likely never would, unless someone really extraordinary came along.

Hardwick grinned one of those sheepish smiles while giving an affirmative answer. 

Mycroft supressed a shudder. 

No wonder Sherlock hadn’t tolerated anything akin to a relationship with this fool.   
That he had agreed to the sex was difficult enough to stomach on its own, Mycroft had felt a sting of anger and jealousy when he first heard of it and it still smarted a bit, but at the same time he knew Sherlock, it had probably been some sort of experiment, the same way Mycroft told himself that his brother’s dalliances with Victor Trevor had been in that same category. 

Victor Trevor was now living the impoverished life of someone who had not only lost his family fortune but also his future prospects when he had been sent down from Cambridge without a degree.   
His father’s company going bankrupt at the same time as Victor had snorted cocaine along the naked back of Mycroft’s little brother could be seen as a coincidence. That Trevor Sr had been arrested and then jailed on account of fraud soon thereafter, making Victor both penniless and forced to quit his studies, leaving Sherlock behind while he had to move out of his university lodgings, was perhaps a little unfortunate but still not beyond bad luck.   
But Victor Trevor being evicted from the family home in Norfolk two days later and eventually ending up in the rural landscapes of northern Scotland with the only surviving relative willing to help him out, landing a job at a local fast food establishment and never to be heard of again, that was far more successful than the initial plan Mycroft had thought of.   
This way Victor Trevor was still alive at least. Harmless as a little mouse, taking comfort in too much drinking and with no future to look forward to. Mycroft had made sure of it.

Not wanting to be seen as having anything to do with this specific guest’s presence at the Christmas party he made no overt move to help Hardwick find Sherlock among the people mingling, there would be plenty of time to observe developments when they were all seated at the table.   
If nothing else he could provide Lestrade with some well-chosen words of information about the kind of relationship Sherlock had indulged in with Hardwick back in the day.

When most of the guests had arrived Mycroft made sure to be seen helping his mother as the dutiful son he did his outmost to project to the world, especially as her husband did his best to give the female serving staff most of _his_ attention. 

Mycroft managed to catch small glimpses of Lestrade now and then, talking to other guests, doing his best with socialising a crowd where he didn’t know anyone and with reluctance Mycroft had to admit that he seemed to be doing a good job of it. 

Sherlock was nowhere to been seen but that was hardly surprising, he hated these gatherings and normally only made an appearance when it was time for the obligatory events of the party, pulling the disappearance act until then. T

hat he was willing to leave his lover to this lot to fend for himself was actually very satisfying in Mycroft's oppinion. Lestrade didn’t seem to mind so far, but it wasn’t likely that he would put up with too much of Sherlock’s selfish behaviour for long and he was actually seen looking for his companion now and again. 

Hardwick was also scanning the room and Mycroft decided that since Sherlock wasn’t there to see them interact, he could risk a quick run-in with the man, maybe plant a few seeds of hope, encouraging him to be boulder in his approach when finally reuniting with Sherlock. 

But first, he should really make sure that Lestrade knew what sort of reunion he was witnessing come dinner time.

With a glass of mulled wine in hand he made his way over to the Detective Inspector who was momentarily occupied with some elderly relative on Mycroft’s paternal side of the family, doing his best to nod along to a tiresome story about how young people never showed their elders any respect anymore and the whole country was trapped in a downward spiral on account of it, a suitably interested look plastered on Lestrade’s features while sipping on his own glass of mulled wine and probably throttling Sherlock in his mind for abandoning him with these bores.   
As Mycroft approached, the relative made a hasty excuse and turned his attention to another unfortunate victim.

“Inspector Lestrade, enjoying yourself without my brother for once?”

Lestrade gave him a frown but didn’t rise to the bait. Mycroft had to hand it to him, the man was hard as nails when he wanted to be and mature enough to not lose his patience at insinuating quips.

“Well, not much choice for it, as Sherlock isn’t here at the moment,” the D.I. answered calmly.

“No, I noticed. I’m hardly surprised, he always had his own agenda, even as a child. Participating in our mother’s meticulously arranged dinner parties was never high on his list of priorities.”

“I wasn’t aware he had such a list. He doesn’t strike me as a person who would put anything down on a list.”

“Oh, you would be surprised.”

“Believe me, he surprises me almost daily,” Lestrade said, a grin making a hasty appearance.

Mycroft pursed his lips, he wasn’t that keen to hear whatever Lestrade experienced in what seemed to be on a daily interaction with his brother. But determined not to be derailed, he gave one of his bland smirks.

“It’s a good trait that you seem to be able to entertain yourself, Inspector. I’m sure it isn’t easy to be a guest of my brother’s when he abandons you like this. But as _colleagues_ I’m sure you are used to his less agreeable sides by now, Sherlock never was good with the social aspects of interacting with others.”

Lestrade took a deep swallow, emptying his glass.

“A little blunt around the edges perhaps, but he does alright. As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, what he does for us is of invaluable help.”

“That’s good, isn’t it. I’m afraid as a family member one is so easily focused on past behaviour. I’m delighted to hear that there has been some progress in his development. Be glad that you missed the so called dark years.”

Lestrade opened his mouth to put an end to the blatant display of badmouthing but Mycroft wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily.

“He was quite wild and unruly growing up. Well, I suppose you have seen some of it, when it comes to the drugs. But there was more. That’s why I constantly worry about him. Some might see it as being overprotective, but if people knew they would understand.”

“Isn’t it a bit intrusive talking about this, here, at your mother’s party? Especially since he isn’t here to fend for himself?”

Lestrade looked at him disapprovingly but Mycroft ignored his misgivings, putting on a look of sympathy instead. It was a novelty for him, using facial expressions not coming off as stern, pompous or disapproving, even if it was all an act. It strained the muscles around his mouth a bit.

“I’m just trying to explain my initial hesitance when hearing about your companionship or whatever it is you are choosing to call it. You see, my brother has a history of engaging in relationships of a sexual nature whenever he is bored, he has done so in the past, as early as being a mere schoolboy. And as I’m sure you might agree, Sherlock being bored is never a good sign, it leads to all sorts of bad decisions.”

Finally he got the results he had hoped for. Lestrade looked like someone had slapped him hard across the cheek.

“Oh, I see this is news to you, Inspector? Well, you haven’t known him that long, I guess it is understandable to not have gone down the road of telling each other everything yet. I just figured, since he had invited you here, that you perhaps were more well-informed. Especially considering….” 

He made the poignant pause, giving Lestrade the chance to wrap his head around the situation and ask for the rest of that sentence himself.   
Soon enough, it came.

“Considering what?”

“One of the people he had a very…how should I put it… _intimate_ relationship with, at school... is here tonight. I figured he was invited by Sherlock, as no one else in the family ever met him. We just heard about him afterwards.”

And there was that slapped expression again. 

Mycroft couldn’t help but think it had all gone down rather easy.   
If the Inspector was this easily shaken the rest of the evening would be child’s play.   
Considering his history with the unfaithful wife he was bound to be suspicious by every threat on the horizon regarding his new love interest as well, especially if Mycroft was providing him with great fodder for his imagination to run wild with.

“Excuse me, Inspector, but I believe I’m being needed by my mother.”

He considered saying something more, offer some sympathy, but at the same time it would have been seen as more suspicious than nice, so he merely nodded and left the stumped Detective Inspector to his own brooding, a giddy anticipation putting a spring in his step as he walked away, letting the crowd of guests envelope him out of both sight and reach.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade meets Hardwick.

LESTRADE

He knew he should take whatever Mycroft threw at him with a grain of salt, the man’s intentions had not been favourable about his relationship with Sherlock and even if he had not said anything overtly offensive or rude since their arrival here Lestrade was careful in his interactions with him.

But still, this information, if true, put a whole new level to what he had thought he and Sherlock were sharing.   
It would explain some things he had been wondering about, like why Sherlock wasn’t willing to go public with what they were. Hell, he wasn’t even willing to define what they were, put a label on it and where was he now anyway?   
Not by Lestrade’s side, that was for sure!

Trying to calm himself, collecting his thoughts, he made his way towards a waiter, grabbing another glass which he downed immediately despite the too sweet taste. 

He couldn’t help feeling upset despite technically having no reason to do so.   
The police in him knew he had no facts that corroborated what Mycroft had told him, on the contrary, if anyone would be eager to spread unfavourable gossip about his brother it would be him. 

But still…

Lie about something that could easily be investigated, it seemed a bit sloppy and if there was one word to attach to Mycroft Holmes, sloppy would not be it. 

Scanning the room of people, he tried assessing which one, if there indeed was such a person, that could be the guest Mycroft claimed had been intimate with Sherlock in the past. A part of him thought it was preposterous, why would Sherlock invite such a person?   
He hadn’t exactly been keen on going here at all, with or without Lestrade, why would he go through the trouble of inviting someone else as well?

_Because when he is bored, it leads to all sorts of bad decisions…_

Was he bored?   
Was that what that admittedly unexpected sexual interlude had been all about last night?   
Lestrade had been taken aback a bit, doing something like that in a garden shed, it wasn’t exactly something he would have expected from Sherlock, but at the same time, he had seemed to enjoy it and since they weren’t sharing a room, it might well have been their best opportunity before the other guests arrived.   
And it was secluded, no chance of anyone running into them while in the act.

But there it was again, the stab of hurt whenever he thought about the fact that it felt like Sherlock didn’t want people to know what they were doing. 

Granted, he would have been mortified if anyone had actually stepped inside that garden shed while they had been going at it, half naked in the cold, but still.   
If it was because Sherlock wanted the secrecy, Lestrade didn’t feel happy about it.

Sure, he could understand it partly.   
Sherlock was young, building a career for himself without being properly educated within the police force or even strictly speaking allowed to be present at crime scenes, it was a difficult task. He was also trying to establish respect among the team at Scotland Yard who all more or less hated his guts, resented him for his genius and for the way he threw that genius in their faces at any opportunity, as well as the fact that he seemed to have their boss wrapped around his little finger.   
Donovan and the rest were already giving Sherlock flack for all sorts of things, bringing a relationship with Lestrade into the mix, it would only make the situation even more infected, even he could see that. 

And then there was Mycroft. Who in their right mind would want to open up about anything to that man, especially considering his passive aggressive animosity towards their relationship to begin with. 

But Lestrade himself had admitted to his feelings for Sherlock openly, as far as he had been allowed to do so.   
His wife had suspected it and he had confirmed it eventually when confronted, causing her to take immediate actions towards a divorce.   
If anyone from his team would have asked him straight out, he would have admitted it to them as well.   
He wasn’t a man accustomed to lying, especially to people he wanted to continue to have a good working relationship with and he wasn’t going to begin now, not even for Sherlock, if the issue was ever raised.   
He had agreed to keeping a low profile, no obvious displays of affection between them in public or any such things, he had agreed to pretend that they were simply colleagues when Mycroft had come by and he had even refrained from taking the bait when a few from his team had delivered some indicating jabs at him regarding Sherlock.

But now he was beginning to wonder what the purpose of all the hush-hush was truly all about.

Sherlock was certainly not a person who cared what other people thought of him, he marched to the sound of his own drum and he had a way of tuning out everything that wasn’t of any interest to him. So other people’s opinions shouldn't really matter and Lestrade couldn’t see that they would. 

But yet, here they were, having sex with benefits, but no one was privy to it.   
Sherlock had even introduced him as a person he worked with, when meeting Mrs Holmes yesterday. 

Was it because Lestrade was one of those temporary distractions Mycroft had mentioned?   
Someone to stave off the boredom with but not significant enough to have for keeps?   
Was that the reason Sherlock insisted on returning to his dingy flat at Montague Street and refused to spend any longer periods of time with Lestrade, despite frequent offers? 

He took a deep sigh and put the empty glass down. 

There was no use getting upset over something he had no answers to.   
Until he could ask Sherlock himself he should drop it all together, he felt himself spoiling a perfectly nice afternoon with his paranoia.   
Sure, it was a bit awkward trying to socialize on your own among people you didn’t know, while being aware of the shark like presence of Mycroft among them and Sherlock nowhere in sight, but the drinks were good, people were friendly enough and he had really needed this little holiday away from work and London.   
Besides, this was his opportunity to get a closer look at how the more well-to-do lived their lives.   
It wasn’t exactly Brideshead revisited, but still, it was posh enough and so far away from his own origins that he might just as well have stepped inside a spread of the latest edition of Country Life Magazine. 

He made a little tour around the house and the outside garden to cool off and to see if he could catch sight of Sherlock, but no such luck. 

The people who were staying overnight had disappeared to change into suitable dinner attire and he contemplated if he should take advantage of that respite and take a breather up in his own room, but unfortunately the people he was sharing lodgings with were now present and gave him no opportunity to be on his own. 

Deciding to take the bullet, he made his way downstairs again were the guests who were not going to stay the night, were still socializing amongst themselves. They were of all ages, some assumingly relatives but mostly friends and acquaintances of the Holmes family. 

He began talking to a younger man who seemed almost as lost himself, named Nicholas Hardwick, lumbering about near the piano, nursing a drink he wasn’t really seen drinking from. Recognising a lost companion in this sea of people who were too busy talking to the ones they knew and not paying new-comers much attention, Lestrade took pity on the man and approached him.

Hrdwick wasn’t much of a talker, a bit on the mousey side, a slight reminisce of Dr Hooper at S:t Bart’s that he sometimes stumbled upon when they had a victim ending up in her lab. He had once brought Sherlock with him there, but that had been a mistake on several levels and he wasn’t willing to do it again in the near future. 

Lestrade wasn’t always willing to tell people what he did for a living, it tended to put others on edge a bit, they became nervous and less free to be themselves, as if employees within the police force where pillars of morality, judging everyone else.  
But considering how Hardwick had a tendency to drone on about his very boring occupation as a business manager within the public sector Lestrade felt forced to reveal what he did for a living as well, just to stear the conversation in another direction. Luckily young Hardwick wasn’t intimidated by his police title and eagerly started asking questions, although still a bit on the boring side.

People were beginning to come back downstairs, eagerly anticipating dinner, some of them better dressed now, smartly attired in bespoke suits and designer dresses. While trying to answer Hardwick as well as he could while secretly tuning out the bigger part of their conversation, he observed the other guest out of curiosity, wondering if Sherlock would finally make an appearance.

“Are you an annual guest?”

His attention was brought back to Hardwick when the question was finally a normal one.   
Lestrade shook his head.

“No, it’s my first time here. You?”

“My first time as well. If I’m honest it was more a spur of the moment kind of thing, I was invited just two weeks ago and I’m not what you would call someone close to the family. But I was tempted to come when asked.”

Lestrade hummed, his attention suddenly drawn to a familiar figure appearing, making his way down the stairs, dressed in a crisp suit, hair in soft curls and the strong pull of a magnet about him, half the room were following his movements, including Mycroft who had appeared from the dining room that exact moment, also nicely dressed in a chequered suit and an ivy-green bow tie. 

In the background Lestrade still heard Hardwick talk but he didn’t pay it anymore attention. 

Despite his earlier misgivings he couldn’t help but feel his pulse rising at the sight of Sherlock, a thrill running through him at the thought that this man was his and only his. Even if they couldn’t share a bed while here, there was perhaps time for another visit to the shed later? 

“…you see, Sherlock and I went to school together. We were quite close actually. Well, _more_ than close is perhaps a better description…if you know what I mean…”

Lestrade froze at the words, his brain not fully catching up on what he had heard. Reluctantly he tore his eyes from the vision that was Sherlock and turned his attention to face Hardwick again.

“ _What?_ ” he spurted, his mind suddenly screeched to a halt, the images of himself pounding into Sherlock in the dark garden shed evaporated, replaced by something sharp and red, more a feral feeling than a human thought.

But before Hardwick had the chance to answer, Mycroft’s voice was heard through the room, drowning out all other voices by his demanding tone, announcing that dinner was now to be served in the dining room.

Lestrade remained glued to his spot while Hardwick excused himself and headed with the others toward the awaiting Christmas food. His eyes met Mycroft’s over the heads of the other guests, a knowing gleam in the older brother's eyes, there and then gone again, before he turned and went with the others, leaving Lestrade alone.

He looked for Sherlock, suddenly feeling an urge to see him, talk to him, but like the others he had headed for the dining room, already well on his way inside.

So, was it true what Mycroft had said?   
Was this Hardwick person someone Sherlock had invited to rekindle something with when Lestrade proved too boring for entertainment?   
It certainly fitted the picture Mycroft had tried painting earlier and according to Hardwick himself he had been very close, _more_ than close, with Sherlock back in the day.

Suddenly seething Lestrade headed for the dining room as well.   
If it was true, and Sherlock had invited Hardwick to join him here, Lestrade had a few chosen words about it.   
He hadn’t travelled all the way to bloody Sussex to be humiliated by a 25-year old with an infidelity streak and bad morals, however much Lestrade loved that youth. The days of being walked all over were long gone, ended when he had divorced his wife. He would never again accept such behaviour, not from anyone. 

As he stalked into the room with determination people were already beginning to seat themselves around the table. A servant approached him, asking for attention with his presence although Lestrade had no other focus but to find Sherlock and confront him.

“May I show you to your seat, Sir?” the man acquired politely and Lestrade suddenly was made aware of this not being neither the time nor the place for a confrontation, however much he itched to have it. A glimpse at Mrs Holmes at the end of table made him remember his manners and curtly he nodded affirmatively.

“Yes, thank you,” he said quietly, still scanning the room for Sherlock, unable to locate him as people were in the way, trying to find their allotted places by the table. 

When finally seated himself he saw him.

Far away from where Lestrade was placed Sherlock had just seated himself.   
Next to him Hardwick beamed at his dining companion as if staring straight into the sun, a full-on grin spreading from ear to ear.

“I guess you have to settle for my humble companionship tonight, Inspector” a familiar drawl was heard next to him. He didn’t even have to turn his head to know who the owner of that voice was. 

Steeling himself, Lestrade drew a deep breath and put on his most insincere shit-eating smile before facing his dining companion.

This was going to be a long night to get through.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is enjoying the show

MYCROFT 

While he observed Hardwick making his move towards Sherlock he was still marvelling over the fact that his little brother had once allowed this…”person” …to have had any sort of physical contact with him, sexual or otherwise. Perhaps he had been better looking as a teenager or Sherlock had been truly desperate? Perhaps his mind had been wittier back then, adulthood had certainly done him no favours and by the look of complete horror that was plastered on Sherlock’s face, he was of that same opinion.

As Mycroft had no way to overhear what they were saying to each other, his focus and the evening’s entertainment was dependant on Detective Inspector Lestrade instead and he was proving well up to the task.

Next to him the man was practically seething.

At first he had stubbornly ignored Mycroft, kept his eyes on the plate of food in front of him, when not stealing glances Sherlock’s way.  
But as the evening had progressed, the aid of alcohol loosened up inhibitions and Hardwick seemingly grew bolder, just like Lestrade grew more frustrated being trapped on the other side of a dinner table, forced to watch his “boyfriend” being pawed by a former lover while unable to do or say anything about it out of pure politeness to the host and hostess who were completely clueless about what was happening right under their noses. 

Mycroft enjoyed both the food as well as the entertainment.  
Usually these functions were boring and something you more or less had to sit through rather than actually enjoy them, the rich Christmas food normally being his only comfort.  
But this year was different, and it had the added bonus of keeping his mind alert on his surroundings instead of just turning in on itself like it usually did.

“So, that’s the guy you mentioned?” Lestrade finally caved in, after having observed Hardwick leaning in too close for comfort, but Sherlock not really having any other option than to remain seated. “The one Sherlock slept with in the past?”

“Yes, I believe it is. They seem awfully chummy, I’d say,” Mycroft said, spearing a brussel sprout with his fork, a smile of enjoyement playing on his lips.

“And Sherlock invited him here?” 

“Well, my parents certainly didn’t. Who else would it be? I have never seen him before and he hardly moves in the circles my parents move in.”

Lestrade sighed and then turned to him.

“I don’t know what to make of you yet. You come off as really hostile towards me and Sherlock being together. As you have probably figured out, whatever Sherlock might have otherwise pretended, we are of course more than colleagues. And either you are against that notion for some reason that is unfathomable to me, or this, what’s happening over there, is the vey reason why you were trying to warn me off.”

“The doings of you and my brother is of no interest to me…” Mycroft began but Lestrade shook his head.

“Oh, it is. Far too much interest actually.”

Mycroft snorted, feeling a bit thrown but not showing it.  
Lestrade would never be able to guess the reason for his uncertainty anyway, no need to worry.

“What I was trying to say, before you interrupted me, is that what you two do, technically speaking, is of no interest to me. But I do care about the fact that my brother has got involved with a man far too old for him, with no good influence and with no future prospect of interest to offer him.”

It sounded reasonable enough. Pehaps harsh as well, but Lestrade was a sensible man, he would understand after he had finished foaming with anger.

“I’m not his sugar daddy if that’s what you’re implying. Sherlock takes care of himself, he doesn’t need anything from me really. Hell, we don’t even pay him and he still offers to help us. The age issue is nothing I can do anything about, and I don’t see it as a problem really, we’re both adults. And as far as the good influence, Sherlock does whatever he wants, he isn’t likely to listen to anyone, whether it be me or someone else. For what I can see, you’re not having much luck in that department yourself.”

He turned his eyes towards Sherlock and Hardwick and nodded.

“But if what you were trying to do, was to warn me off for other reasons, reasons like that situation going on over there, then that’s another story. I’m not sure you’re that good-natured to care about my feelings, but if Sherlock really brought another man here and then humiliates me by canoodling with him right in front of me, I guess I should be thankful for the warnings you’ve been giving me.”

Mycroft nodded, as if conceeding the sense in this statement. Then he turned his eyes towards Sherlock and Hardwick as well.  
They were now involved in some sort of whipering game between them. Well, more likely Sherlock was probably hissing acctually, but outwardly it seemed as if they were whispering with each other.

“Are you going to do anything about it?”

“I’m not going to cause a scene, if that’s what you’re hoping. I’ll be having a word with your brother when this dinner is over though.”

Mycroft scoffed.

“A word? How very civilized of you. I would’ve thought, considering the history with your wife’s infidelity, that you were done taking the high road. My brother will walk all over you if you don’t put him in his place.”

There was no way he could allow Lestrade to behave civilized about this, what was needed was a scene, something to embarrass Sherlock enough to drop the Detective Inspector like a hot potato.  
A jealous fit.

He had experience of how Sherlock reacted to those, if there was something his brother abhorred, it was someone trying to control him, especially with something as sordid as jealousy.  
Mycroft himself was older now and wouldn’t have acted like his younger self had once done, years ago, but the outcome had been disastrous and Sherlock had never really forgiven him for it afterwards.  
That blackout on account of Mycroft's raging jealousy, it had been like a force of nature, uncontrollable back then. He handled it all better with scheming these days. 

Unfortunately Lestrade was proving to be difficult. 

He didn’t seem willing to do anything in public and if he managed to get Sherlock to talk to him privately the game would be up, it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to sort out any miscommunications. Sherlock would probably blame Hardwick’s presence on Mycroft even if there wasn’t any proof of his involvement, he had never met Mycroft in person. But Sherlock would know anyway.

Fortunately Hardwick himself solved Mycroft’s problem mere minutes later when putting his hand gently over Sherlock’s, leaning in and whispering something in his ear.

“That’s it!” Lestrade hissed and threw his cutlery down on the plate with a loud enough clinking sound that it caused people to look over his way. Clearly he didn’t care. Instead he rose from his chair and departed, stomping out of the room.

Mycroft caught his brother’s eyes.  
They looked surprised but also a bit worried. 

That was unexpected. 

Sherlock generally didn’t bother with caring about other people and their feelings, at least not over the mundane ones he had no understanding of.  
He had already removed Hardwick’s hand but Lestrade wasn’t there any longer to witness it.

The rest of the dinner went without further surprises.  
Hardwick seemed to have been told off because he kept his distance after the attempt with the hand holding and Sherlock was mostly poking at his food, his head turned away from his old school companion now. 

Mycroft, meanwhile, tried enjoying the food, which was rich and tasteful, a calorific feast of all his Christmas favourites.  
His mother had outdone herself this year, as he felt that she did every year, but despite doing his best to indulge, all thoughts of diets banished over the holiday, he felt uncomfortably full and swollen, more forcing down the food than actually enjoying it. 

He didn’t understand it, he should be feeling a thrill of completion.  
Lestrade had lost his temper and whenever he and Sherlock finally had their little talk it was bound to be tinted by anger, jealousy and resentment.  
Sherlock would not understand, he would most likely grow angry, especially if Lestrade was upset enough to pour his heart out without giving the other a chance to speak. 

The best scenario would have been if Lestrade had left the house all together, packed his bags and just left. But logically speaking it wasn’t likely.  
It was Christmas Eve after all and the house wasn’t anywhere near any good communications back to London. 

Most likely the good Inspector was stewing in his room right now. It was tempting to pay him a visit, make sure to drive in the nails of the relationship coffin completely by making up some detail about how Hardwick was taking full advantage of Sherlock downstairs, but that would perhaps be a bit rich, even for Mycroft. Better to not get too involved in this, keep his hands clean of the mess and later enjoy his victory.

Not that it would mean any developments to his own situation with Sherlock, that part was unfortunately over and done with.  
His brother would never change his mind and Mycroft had learnt to accept it over time. It didn’t mean he had to accept his brother being with someone else though.

People were beginning to clear out of the dining room eventually, heading over to the living room again, some going out in the garden for a smoke or some fresh air. Mycroft remained seated, feeling the fullness in his stomach like an uncomfortable ache but still unable to resist one last bite here and there of what was still on offer on the table.

From the corner of his eye he saw his brother leave, followed by Hardwick. They weren’t heading in the same direction though and Hardwick was probably regretting ever having come here. It always did sting when hopes and expectations were shattered.

When Mycroft was the only one still seated, he raised his napkin and patted his lips with it carefully.  
It was beginning to feel like an effort to get up, but to be seen still seated at the table when everyone else had left wasn’t preferable either. 

He loosened his bow tie slightly and patted his stomach, as if preparing it for oncoming movement.  
A diet after Boxing Day would be inevitable. 

Just as he was about to rise, he heard steps coming in from the door behind his back.  
Thinking they probably belonged to a staff member coming to clear away what remained of the dinner, he didn’t bother to turn his head in the direction of the approaching steps, concentrating on the difficult task of getting up.

But before he was able to that, a hand snaked its way inside his bow tie, twisting it between the fingers so his breathing became more restricted, not cutting off air supply all together, just manifesting itself as very uncomfortable.

“Nicely played, brother,” a familiar voice whispered in his ear, soft curls tickling Mycroft's skin with their proximity and the scent that was uniquely his brothers, wafted in his direction. 

“But not over yet.”

And with those words the grip of the bow tie was pulled even tighter, causing Mycroft to gasp for air and close his eyes as small dots were beginning to dance in front of him. Just as he was about to pass out, the grip was suddenly loosened and he sank backward in his chair, drawing deep lungfuls of air, trying to regain his composure. 

As he opened his eyes again he was alone in the room.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Lestrade and Sherlock come to new conclusions about their relationship.

LESTRADE

He had no idea where to go.

The upper floor was empty of people, everyone enjoying themselves downstairs, but soon enough dinner would be over and his roommates would eventually materialize, robbing him of the need he had to be alone in his misery.

So instead, when unable to find a place where he could find privacy inside the house, he returned downstairs and went straight out through the door, heading for the garden shed where he had shared such a passionate time with Sherlock the night before. 

This time it was substantially colder, primarily because he hadn’t brought his coat, but also because he didn’t have another body to warm himself against.   
The difference from yesterday was depresssingly obvious for more reasons than that.   
Yesterday he had still carried a small belief that he and Sherlock shared something beautiful between them, the rush of endorphins afterwards had kept him happy all through the night and the morning after, even when faced with the sourly face of Mycroft at the breakfast table.   
He had been genuinely happy.

Now he ached. 

A lump was wedged in his throat, disappointment, jealousy, sadness as well as anger was fighting for dominance inside him and yet he didn’t know what to do about it. He had probably been stupid all along to think that Sherlock, self-proclaimed sociopath, would ever return the feelings Lestrade held for him. The usual shouts of “bored!” should have told him that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to cope with the slow uneventfulness of a country weekend with an older lover who had already showed him all the tricks of his repertoire over the past months and offered no new experiences in any department.   
Lestrade had more or less showed Sherlock who he was already from the beginning, there were no undiscovered sides left to explore, so no wonder Sherlock had taken the precaution to brig someone else to entertain him.

Furiously he kicked the table, pain soaring through his foot, but he didn’t care.   
It was a different kind of pain than the one he felt in his chest, more primal but better, it brought the attention away from the rawness of his exposed nerve ends. Encouraged by this revelation, his arm swept out in a wide motion, bringing down tools and other knick knacks to scatter over the floor.   
He felt the urge to bring the whole shed down to ruins around him, kicks and punches hailing down over every available surface as well as the walls that rattled from the impact.

Finally, panting from the effort, he crouched down to his knees and roared. 

Everything he had held bottled up inside him these past months came out with that roar: his wife’s face when she had snarled at him that Sherlock was making him look like a fool, Mycroft superior expression when he had informed Lestrade that Sherlock had invited Hardwick to the Chrismas party, and Donovan's suspicious glare at her boss when he offered to give the consultant a lift home in his car. Not to mention Sherlock’s disdain for the word boyfriend .   
Of course he wouldn’t deign to call himself something like that, it was ridiculous. And they had all been right.   
It had all been ridiculous, how could he have missed the clues?

The cold was beginning to get a hold of him now and he should probably return to the house, face the music and put himself out of his misery, better to be done with it quickly than prolonging the agony. He should give Sherlock a piece of his mind, let him bear the brunt of Lestrade's bitterness, but most likely Sherlock wouldn’t understand why he was upset and even more likely, Sherlock would be busy with that other man by now. 

Suddenly the were steps outside and before Lestrade had the chance to stumble up from his crouching position, the door flew open and Sherlock appeared in the doorway like a ghoul standing out in the dark background.

“What are you doing here? I’ve looked for you everywhere, it’s bloody freezing!”

As he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, Sherlock's eyes fell on the mess around Lestrade, first widening in surprise, before narrowing again.

“Interesting way to pass your time, crashing a garden shed. I don’t disapprove per say, but it seems like a lot of waste, energy wise. Granted, it is very cold in here, so on the other hand maybe it wasn’t that stupid.”

“Sherlock…” Lestrade growled in warning. He wasn’t up to the other man’s quips right now, he probably never would be again.   
He suddenly felt drained.

Sherlock walked over to the crouching figure on the floor and after a second’s hesitation he crouched down as well, balancing on the balls of his feet. 

“You have been listening to Mycroft despite knowing that nothing good ever comes out of my brother’s mouth. Why?”

“Look, Sherlock, I didn’t just suddenly start listening to him, I have eyes of my own you know and what I saw at that dinner table was pretty conclusive. Your brother just filled in the gaps. And whatever you might think about the limits of my intelligence, I’m not stupid enough to take whatever he throws at me at face value, but from where I was sitting it seemed rather straight forward.”

Sherlock snorted and raised one of his eye brows.

“And what exactly is it that you claim to have seen?”

Lestrade shook his head. He wasn't really that willing to talk right now, all he wanted was to be left alone. His mother, had she been there, would have claimed that he took much pleasure in wallowing in his own misery, but what did she know about anything? She hadn't even once shed a tear over her husband's absence.

“Please, Sherlock, just drop it. I know about that man who was sitting next to you during dinner. I know that you two were involved as teenagers, that you invited him here. If not for sex , I don’t know what for, but he was certainly very happy seeing you again and why else would you invite him? For his companionship? Reminiscing about old times? You’re not that kind of person.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and it took every once of will power for Lestrade to not slap his insolent face. If Sherlock noticed, he didn't show it, instead he started speaking.

“For starters, I _didn’t_ invite him. Like you said, I’m not the kind of person who walks down memory lane, talking about the past. In fact, Hardwick wasn’t even a memory to me, I had deleted him years ago. It acctually took me a while to grasp the situation as bumping into failures from the past is hardly a regular occurrence for me, so I think I might be forgiven for not fully seeing the situation for what it was at first. I just thought he was a regular idiot, like the majority seated at that table.”

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, searching for signs of him being sarcastic or pulling his leg, or even straight up lying. Sherlock lied like it was second nature to him, but usually only when it served his purposes. Was this such an instance?

“Mycroft said that you had invited your school chum to prevent yourself from being bored out of your mind this weekend. He said it was a habit of yours to stave off boredom with sex. And …well, it made sense considering all the other pieces.”

“What other pieces?” Sherlock acctually sounded surprised. 

Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face and rose, a bit unsteadily, leaning out to grip the table to find balance. His legs felt numb.   
Sherlock didn’t have the same issue, nimbly rising in one fluid movement.

“Well, to begin with, that man wasn’t imaginary. He _was_ actually here and he was very keen, if you know what I mean. Then there is the telling fact that you are a person who is easily bored, very fickle and usually I haven’t a clue what you really think of me, deep down in your heart, because you’re half-way out the door whenever I want you to do more than just sleep with me. I wonder if you perhaps use me as a way to stave of boredom as well. Like the way you used drugs in the past? Perhaps I am merely the new entertainment of the hour, an entertainment that provides you with juicy crimes and access to work?”

The silence that followed his words was deafening and yet he couldn’t regret them once they were out. He needed to know the truth.

Sherlock stared at him, at first coldly, but then with anger flashing in his eyes.

“That bastard…” he mumbled and Lestrade felt confused. It wasn’t exactly the words he had been expecting.

“Excuse me, but who's a bastard?”

“Mycroft of course. I knew he had planned something and I tried keeping my eyes open. But I guess I expected something else, this is all very…well, unlike him. If you think I am ill-informed when it comes to feelings, he is a veritable idiot. Might be the lack of a heart inside that fat-ladened body mass of his. But at the same time, his brain is as sharp as a knife, that he would come up with something I couldn’t foresee shouldn’t surprise me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He invited Hardwick here to cause a wedge between us, relying on your jealousy to create a chasm, knowing that I hadn’t managed to grasp the depths of your insecurities. That you harboured such thoughts about me, it's quite a revelation. I had no idea you felt like this.”

“Look, I was perhaps a bit…” Lestrade began but Sherlock raised his hand to stop him.

“No, it was good. It made me see the whole picture. We would probably have talked past each other and actually fulfilled his wishes if you hadn’t said it. I thought you were stupid and weak for falling for my brother’s tricks, especially as they were unfounded and it was plain as day that I had no interest in Hardwick. I thought it was caused by something childish you had carried with you from your marriage, a paranoia towards your partner interacting with others, seeing threats everywhere. But with this new piece of the puzzle, it’s more understandable that you drew the conclusions you did.”

While feeling a sense of relief upon hearing that Sherlock felt nothing when it came to Hardwick, that it had seemingly all been a ploy of Mycroft’s, Lestrade still had a difficult time grasping the whole picture. The anger he had felt mere minutes ago, it wasn’t easily disposed of. A part of him wondered if anything Sherlock said actually made sense. 

“So you had nothing to do with inviting that Hardwick person here?”

“No, of course not. Why would I invite that boring idiot here? I’m suffering enough fools as it is with all the other guests, why bring yet another one? I’m guessing Mycroft omitted the fact that Hardwick and I hardly parted on the best of terms back in the day?”

“No, he only said you used him for sex to stave off boredom.”

“Well, that’s partly accurate. We weren’t friends or anything, I don’t even think he knew who I was in the beginning. School was positively rotting my brain and far too much time was wasted outside of schoolwork for me to cope with, I needed something to diverge myself with. Sex was something I didn’t have too much experience with and I decided to remedy that, treat it like a sort of experiment, picking a person out of random, see how long it would take to get him to have sex with me, how willing he would be to different kinds of sexual acts, to see if sex was a good way to pass the time or if I should engage in an actual hobby instead. You know, very scientific.”

“Are you saying that you treated him like a guinea pig?”

“If you like to call him that, yes. I actually referred to him as specimen A. The initial idea involved a specimen B and C as well, but unfortunately things didn’t go as I had planned it.”

Lestrade couldn’t help but groan. Sherlock apparently had a way of making an already absurd situation even more ridiculous.

“I picked Hardwick out by random. He looked nice, seemed normal and had no attachments to me. The fact that he actually didn’t know who I was made the challenge even better. And in the beginning it worked pretty well. We met for sex, nothing more and when he left I scribbled down my observations. But then he began developing feelings, suddenly becoming very clingy and needy, so I had to end it. Unfortunately he found my notes on the experiment while going through my drawers, looking for proof that I had found someone new to sleep with and as you can imagine, it didn’t go down that well. We had a huge fight. He changed schools soon after.”

“Jesus, Sherlock…”

“How was I supposed to know that he would confuse sex for love? Half the school were wanking each other off in the showers or behind the gym, that’s what you get when you put hormone-riddled teenage boys in close proximity and no other channels for sexual release. No one else ended up acctually falling for a boy who offered to blow you for a Mars bar.”

Lestrade’s head was positively spinning from all this new information, the beginnings of a migraine dangerously close. Sherlock on the other hand looked like he was still occupied thinking about the follies of Hardwick.

They should probably head back to the house. If nothing else, it was beginning to get really cold inside the shed and neither of them were dressed properly for this. But Lestrade still had a question lingering inside him.

“Why don’t you want to call me your boyfriend?"

“Well, for starters, you’re past mid-forties. The word boy hasn’t applied for several years.”

Lestrade couldn’t help but snort but there was some mirth in it now. It acctually felt nice.

“Cheek.”

“Nevertheless true.”¨

They went silent for a moment.

“I’m still wondering though,” Lestrade finally said.

“Why does it matter so much, why the need to label us?”

“You’re the pseudo-scientist, figure it out.”

Sherlock looked at him in silence for yet another moment, really looked, probably trying to analyse what it was that he meant. Lestrade wondered if he should feel saddened by the fact that Sherlock didn’t seem to understand what he was saying.

“You’re worried,” Sherlock finally concluded.

“Good deduction there.”

“And afraid. Although I don’t quite understand why.”

This time Lestrade didn’t answer. 

“I am not your ex-wife you know. There is no reason to be either worried or afraid.”

“And yet I am.”

“It doesn’t make sense. What exactly is it you fear?”

“Something similar to what happened tonight.”

“But that was a ploy! If Mycroft knows what’s good for him, he’ll back off from now on.”

“But that man, your school friend, he wasn’t in on the plan. He just thought you were available and went for it. And that’s what I’m talking about, Sherlock. People will always assume that you are single and obtainable, so they will try their luck and I can’t even tell them that you are mine, that you belong to me. Because I don’t know if you actually do, what it is you consider us to be. Are we merely two men who have sex occasionally, friends with benefits, or is there more? For me there is more, but I haven’t the foggiest about how you feel and it’s beginning to eat me up inside!”

A frown appeared in the space between Sherlock’s eyebrows and Lestrade sighed internally.   
Why was it that someone as clever as Sherlock Holmes couldn’t understand the most simple of human nature, not even after Lestrade had laid it all out there in the open. Yes he was jealous, he was a little possessive, he was afraid that one day there wasn’t going to be a scheme signed Mycroft Holmes when another person leaned in, breaking the personal boundary rules and took the plunge with Sherlock. The day that plunge was rewarded, reciprocated and Lestrade would stand there with his heart in his hands, offering something that was no longer wanted.

That was what he worried about, yes even feared. 

Because it would hurt so much more than when he first realised that the woman he had married had been cheating on him for the past six months and continued to do so for the rest of their marriage. It had stung of course, his pride had been wounded, but had it broken his heart?   
No.   
Because he had loved the image of her, the perfect surface, that hint of luxury that came with her, but he had never truly loved the person beneath.   
It hadn’t mattered to him that he felt that way because he had loved the image of what they presented more than the actual bond between them and that was probably why it had taken someone like Sherlock coming into his life to finally make him see that their marriage had been nothing but a hollow shell. 

It would hurt so much more when things with Sherlock came to an end.

Logically he knew that a ring or a title didn’t change anything, if Sherlock would ever meet someone else, then it would happen regardless of whatever promises he had made Lestrade.   
But until that day came, it would still have been nice to be able to tell people that Sherlock was his and off limits. Not to mention the fact that it would have been nice to hear that Sherlock reciprocated even an ounce of the love Lestrade felt for him. 

If he acctually didn’t, then Lestrade would know it at least. He was sure he would be able to take it better than Hardwick had once done.

Sherlock interrupted his thoughts by speaking again.

“If I didn’t want to be with you, I wouldn’t be. I didn’t realise you needed some sort of commitment. After your disastrous marriage and subsequent divorce I figured you were happy with something less…definite.”

“I divorced her because I love you! I’m not asking you to marry me, but I need something, Sherlock, some assurance that I’m not imaging that we have some sort of bond between us.”

“Of course we have a bond. Why do you think I allowed you to talk me in to taking you here, for example? Because I enjoy spending time with a bunch of dullards at a Christmas party from hell, stuck in the middle of nowhere, forced to share a room with bloody Mycroft and telling a man I once knew briefly in school to keep his hands to himself throughout the whole dinner? I can hardly come up with a worse scenario and yet, here we are.”

Lestrade couldn’t help but laugh at this. Sherlock immediately looked at him with disapproval and it made him look like a little boy who didn’t like being laughed at. It was quite adorable actually.

And what he had said actually made sense, in that very Sherlockian way where things always seemed absurd at face value but then became logical in the end.   
Because of course, Sherlock, who always did things his own way and never cared about others, had endured all of this for Lestrade’s sake while Lestrade hadn’t been able to see the meaning behind it, being too busy fretting about a silly title and unspoken promises.   
His wife had made vows in front of a priest at their wedding day, promised to love him for better and worse and still it hadn’t stopped her from breaking that promise as soon as opportunity had presented itself. 

In the end, words were meaningless if they were broken, but actions spoke louder than words, especially when done by a man who through all his life had followed his own path and never accounted for anyone else. 

“If you insist on a more substantial proof of my affection for you than me participating in this _holiday extravaganza_ , then make me a proposition. I’ll stand by what I said about the term “boyfriend”, it would seem utterly ridiculous to use that title, but if you need something to stop you from worrying about what we are, instead of just enjoying what we have, then feel welcome to make a suggestion. If not, _I_ suggest that we take advantage of this rare, and most likely not reoccurring opportunity we have to be alone this weekend and use the time to do something significantly more entertaining.”

With that Sherlock stepped up to Lestrade and leaned in, pressing his lips to the other man’s mouth while snaking his arm around his waist.   
Without hesitation, a small smile still playing on his lips, Lestrade kissed him right back.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets a surprise visit from Sherlock and Lestrade.

MYCROFT

Retiring to his room after a frankly exhausting evening Mycroft only half-expected to find his brother there. They did share a room but Sherlock had on the other hand much more pressing matters to attend to.  
What he didn’t expect was Detective Inspector Lestrade sitting on the bed when he opened the door and entered. Startled, he froze for a second but then steeled himself and continued, as if not caring about the other man’s presence, merely acknowledging him with a raised eye-brow.

“Evening,” Lestrade said calmly from the bed.

He no longer had his jacket on, it was nicely draped over a chair, and his shoes were removed as well, but otherwise he was dressed the same way he had been the whole evening, only a bit more rumpled perhaps. He looked surprisingly calm for a man who must have had one of the worst experiences’ mere hours ago.  
Perhaps he hadn’t met with Sherlock yet.

“May I ask what you are doing here, Detective Inspector? If you don’t mind, it’s rather late and I would like to get myself ready for bed. “

“I understand. It’s been quite an eventful evening.”

There was something in his tone that sent alarm bells ringing, had Sherlock actually managed to salvage this mess somehow? Or had the Detective Inspector finally lost his marbles completely? Jealousy tended to cloud all judgement and decency . 

It was tempting to ask but somehow it seemed that he would soon find out anyway.

And that he did when the door to the ensuite bathroom opened and his brother emerged, also in a state of undress, three shirt buttons undone already, socks and shoes disposed of. There was something very intimate about the picture, the sight of his little brother’s bare feet crossing the carpet over to the bed where Lestrade was sitting. It would have been endearing if not for the presence of the D.I.

An uncomfortable feeling was beginning to settle in Mycrofts abdomen, especially when he caught a look of Sherlock’s facial expression.  
It was surprisingly calm, especially considering the fact that his brother usually had a whole arsenal of micro expressions going on over his features, he was mostly this calm only when he was deep asleep.

Sherlock had seated himself down by the foot of the bed. It wasn’t next to Lestrade, but they still formed a clear union.  
Fixing his older brother with his penetrating eyes, Sherlock started speaking in a factual tone, as if explaining something very logic to an imbecile, probably wanting to irritate Mycroft even further.  
Well, he wasn’t going to let them have the pleasure.

“We have been thinking about this whole sleeping arrangement. This bed is big enough for two, as we both established last night. Whereas the bed in my room is very narrow and much more suited for the solitary sleeper. Since you are clearly not new to the whole aspect of sleeping alone, we thought that the idea of switching beds for the night wouldn’t be such a big adjustment to your regular sleeping activities. Quite contrary it is believed that a person who is used to sleeping alone has difficulty getting a good night’s sleep when being forced to share with another person. As Lestrade and I are used to sleeping together on a fairly regular basis we decided that for the good of us all, he sleeps with me in here and you take my old bed instead.”

“Oh, so you are admitting to being more than just colleagues now, are you?” Mycroft scoffed. 

“You know perfectly well why I took that precaution. " 

"Whatever are you implying, Sherlock? That I couldn't have handled the truth from the beginning instead of going through this charade?”

"Yes, you have never been able to handle anyone having any sort of importance in my life beside yourself."

This time Lestrade decided to speak, clearly tired of waiting for the two brothers to get to the point.

“Mr Holmes. You either leave this room so me and Sherlock can spend the night here together. Or I’ll be having a word with your mother about your conduct this evening. Mr Hardwick has already left the premises but can easily be tracked down to further corroborate our story, if needed. I had the opportunity to talk to him before he left and let’s say he did not appreciate being part of this whole scheme. “

Mycroft feigned ignorance.

“What scheme? I never met the man in my life until this evening.”

“No, but you knew of him and that it sufficient. Please don’t do us the injustice of denying your intentions for this evening. I don’t understand why you feel you need to interfere with your brother’s life the way you do, but it ends here, or I’ll slap you with a harassment warrant.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but let out a dry chuckle, this was preposterous. This man could do nothing to him, it was laughable that he even thought he could.  
It was going to be a pleasure burying him under the pile of rubble he, up to this point, had been calling his life.

But before Mycroft had the chance to respond, Sherlock got up and stepped up to him. Without turning his eyes away from his brother, he addressed Lestrade who was still sitting on the bed.

“Could you fetch me a glass of milk from the kitchen? I’ll need a minute alone with my brother. And stop fretting, I’ll be fine.”

Lestrade looked a bit uncertain at first but didn’t protest and slowly rose from the bed. As he passed Sherlock he let his hand reassuringly squeeze his shoulder and Mycroft couldn’t help but snort inwardly at the gesture.  
Sentimental stupidity. 

At least Sherlock still had the sense to understand that certain things were still private between them, not to be heard or seen by anyone else. 

As the door had shut behind Lestrade Sherlock closed the distance between himself and Mycroft even further, being inches from his face now. 

“This is not going to be a rerun of what happened with Victor. I was unprepared back then, but fear not, I am more than prepared this time. Do anything to ruin this man and I will end you. I mean it. _End you_.”

Surprised by the harshness of his little brother’s words but still not willing to back down, Mycroft employed his most superior big brother-tone, the one who spoke of familial responsibility. 

“I have only ever cared about your well-being, Sherlock. I am your brother and it’s only natural that I would be concerned and worry if you do things that I deem unsuitable or straight out ruinous for you. It's my responsibilty to get involved, however insulted or upset you might feel about it.”

Anger flared in Sherlock’s eyes now. He was far more upset than Mycroft had at first anticipated.

“There is nothing _natural_ about what it is that you do, not that you would care, as long as no one knows. But let me assure you, if you do anything more to interfere with me and Lestrade, it will stop being a thing kept in the dark. I’ll drag it all out into the open, to our parents, to people you work with, everyone.”

Mycroft snorted and shook his head, stepping back a bit to get more space between them. He was beginning to feel the heat of his brother's fury and wasn't particularly liking it. 

“You would suffer the consequences of that as well.”

But Sherlock wasn’t backing down.

“Yes, but it would worth it. Besides, I would have nothing to lose, while you would risk losing everything you’ve built for yourself. Including me. I would throw the match and see everything burst into flames, then I would walk away, bury myself so deep and far away that you would never be able to find me, content in the knowledge that you would be ruined.”

They stared at each other.

Sherlock wasn’t bluffing, Mycroft could tell. The sense of defeat, unusual as that feeling normally was for him, had now begun to get a firm hold of his insides. 

In a final effort to make his point come across he leant forward, like a viper striking, and hissed:

“Why is that man important o you? What could he possibly offer you more than access to Scotland Yard’s crime scenes? I could do that for you, you know, you don't need him. You could work for me, you know that. It would be on a grander scale, more intricate puzzles than what the common thug of the streets could offer you.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to do that. You _know_ that. I want you to leave me alone, Mycroft. Continue your peep shows if it pleases you, watch us through the cameras till your eyes dry up, I don’t care. But one more effort to throw an obstacle our way and I’ll make good of my promise. Just imagine what mummy would say if she knew what you used to do with me in this very room? She would be horrified that she ever suggested we share a bed again.”

“You were in on it!” Mycroft erupted. His sense of control was beginning to waiver. 

“I was fifteen!”

And that was really all it took. Mycroft firmly closed his mouth; he had nothing more to say. 

Thoughts of that final night between them, many years ago now, but still vividly ingrained in his memory like it was still happening, made him feel the impact of regret. It wasn’t the first time, he had felt it many times over the years.  
If he hadn’t lost control like that, letting jealousy get the better of him, things might have still been good between them. Sherlock would have been his.  
And instead Mycroft now had to endure not only the ramifications of that night and the shattered bond between them, he also had to bear watching Detective Inspector Lestrade reap the fruits of what should have been his.

They were still staring at each other when the door opened and Lestrade stepped back into the room, a glass of milk in his hand.

“Done?” he asked gently, as he stepped over to Sherlock and handed him the glass, the other arm immediately placing itself over the younger man's shoulders in a protective gesture.

Without removing his eyes from his brother, Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, done. Aren’t we, Mycroft?”

Mycroft gave his little brother one final look, really taking him in, as if memorising this part so it could later be put away with the other pieces of his failure, before he quitely turned his back and left, closing the door softly behind him.


End file.
